


The Devil You Know

by chief_johnson



Series: Devilish Series [1]
Category: Law & Order: SVU
Genre: Flashbacks, Gen, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-31
Updated: 2019-02-11
Packaged: 2019-10-01 18:38:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 11
Words: 80,849
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17249327
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chief_johnson/pseuds/chief_johnson
Summary: A serial rapist-turned-killer who's fixated on women that look like Lt. Benson. A familiar face from the darkest moment in Olivia's past. Both will lead the lieutenant on a harrowing journey that could destroy her for good. Can the squad rescue her before it's too late? (Contains Rolivia friendship & a pinch of subtext.) This work now has a sequel entitled "Idle Hands."





	1. Doppelgänger

**Author's Note:**

> Hi, readers. Thanks for checking out my story. While I am new to writing for the SVU-verse, I've been part of the fanfiction world for many years. I'd really appreciate reviews, as they let me know what I'm doing right (or wrong). In its early stages, this was going to be a hurt/comfort story for Olivia and Amanda, but as it took shape, it became more of a character study of Liv. Don't worry, there will still be plenty of Rolivia goodness ahead. Also, I noticed there's another SVU fic out there entitled "The Devil You Know" -this has nothing to do with that one, it's just the title I had picked out from the beginning and couldn't bear to change. Please, please, please R&R!
> 
> Spoilers: Half of this was written before the season 20 premiere, so there's nothing beyond one or two vague references to things from the current season. There are, however, tons of references to past seasons (as far back as season 9), so a good grasp of the show's-and especially Olivia's-backstory will be helpful. TRIGGER WARNING! Depictions of strong violence and sexual assault herein. TRIGGER WARNING!
> 
> Disclaimer: I own nothing, except for a couple of original characters I threw in there for reasons. Everything else belongs to Dick Wolf and NBC.

[ ](https://imgur.com/fr0KBUJ)

 

* * *

 "Better the devil you know, than the devil you don't."  
\- PROVERB

"You're one microscopic cog  
In his catastrophic plan  
Designed and directed by  
His red right hand"  
\- NICK CAVE & THE BAD SEEDS

* * *

**PROLOGUE**

_A flash lights up the room, so bright it makes me see spots. For a second, though, I catch a glimpse of her, and it leaves an afterimage behind my eyes, like she's burned into my brain._

_I'm positive the flash or the sound of the camera spitting out its Polaroid will wake her, but she doesn't move. I even flap the picture over her while it develops, and she keeps right on sleeping. She's so pale and still in the moonlight coming through the curtains. I wonder if that's what a dead person looks like._

_Suddenly, she rolls over and mumbles something in her sleep. It's my name—mine!—and that excites me more than the risk of getting caught._

_She knows me. Even without looking, she knows exactly who I am._

* * *

**CHAPTER 1:**  Doppelgänger

The dead woman bore an uncanny resemblance to Olivia Benson, enough so that Fin took an involuntary step back and swore beneath his breath. A quick glance around at the grim faces of his colleagues assured him he wasn't alone in his assessment. Even the ME kept sneaking uneasy looks at the corpse's pallid face as she waited for the thermometer to beep, announcing liver temperature. But it was Amanda Rollins who looked greenest around the gills as she knelt beside the lifeless brunette sprawled among the Central Park bramble.

"You see it, right?" she asked, peering up at Fin from behind a sweep of blonde bangs. She tossed them from her eyes absently, blue irises flashing with an intensity that Fin had come to know—and sometimes dread—as all Detective Rollins.

"Yeah," Fin said, nodding reluctantly as he continued to study the gruesome scene. Poor lady didn't have a stitch on. If he had ever been curious about what lay beyond his boss's modest cotton V-necks and streamlined slacks, he was getting a pretty good idea right now. Not that he ever had, of course . "Yeah, I see it."

"She's got the mark, too." Reaching out with a latex-gloved hand, the other hovering near the victim's torso for balance but not touching, Amanda indicated a single vertical line along the sternum. It was the length of her forefinger and a furious shade of red. Dried blood had formed a blackish crust along the thin slice, giving it a charred appearance. Unlike the other cuts and abrasions that littered the gradually decomposing flesh in frenetic, nonsensical patterns, this was a deliberate wound, clean and precise as a surgeon's stroke.

The others all had a mark like this one. Glyphs, they were being called, no doubt coined such by some snot-nosed rookie with four eyes, no girlfriend, and a minor in ancient history. To Fin they just looked like meaningless lines and angles, dead ends on a roadmap of brutality—and yet another sign that the guy they were dealing with was a real sick twist. As if the mounting body count weren't proof enough.

"Goddammit," Fin muttered again. He had the strong urge to slip off his police issue windbreaker and drape it over the exposed corpse, shielding it from curious unis and the handful of pedestrians craning their necks behind the crime scene tape; CSU and the ME were still processing the scene, so he settled for blocking the view with broad shoulders and a wide stance.

NYPD, motherfuckers.

"Based on liver temp and rigor, I'd estimate TOD between eight and ten hours ago," the medical examiner announced to no one in particular, while scribbling her findings on a notepad. She seemed to have recovered from the eerie mood cast by the lieutenant's unfortunate double, but she was the only one. "Maybe longer with that frost we had this morning. I'll know more once I open her up."

Fin tuned out the drab voice coming from the equally drab face as it continued to monotone facts he had already heard before: lividity suggested the body had been dumped postmortem, concurrent with lack of blood spatter on scene. Obvious signs of trauma to breasts and genitals. Appeared malnourished. Oh, and cause of death? Most likely that grinning gash below the chin, stretched from ear to ear, splaying the neck open like salmon belly at a fish market.

 _No shit, Sherlock_ , he thought. Christ, sometimes he missed Warner and her dark humor. This cranky old bat wouldn't know levity if it came up and bit her on the ass.

"Straight razor," Amanda said, barely audible over a gust of chilly October wind. Her eyes were still fixed on the dead woman's face, mouth set in a taut little line, jaw clenched. She forced herself to examine the wound further down. "Bastard thinks he's Sweeney Todd."

"I hate musicals." Fin circled the body carefully, squinting at each minute detail—an oddly positioned limb, a bruise of indeterminate pattern. Anything to help nail the guy responsible for their current victim. He hoped to God the whiteish smudge on her inner thigh would finally render a DNA sample. So far the killer had been meticulous about concealing his identity, leaving not so much as a strand of hair or partial print behind. Even before he had escalated to murder—when he was still just raping and mutilating his targets—there were very few leads to pursue. According to the generic profile worked up by one of the department shrinks, they were searching for a young man (possibly a teenager, which  _did_  narrow the field a bit) who lacked impulse control and had severe mommy issues. Above average intelligence and forensic knowledge, on brazen display in his ability to go unnoticed while dumping bodies in public spaces, gave him an edge over your typical rapist. He also had a thing for tall brunettes with wide brown eyes, olive skin, and striking features.

It had been Carisi who first noticed the similarities to Benson a few months ago back at the precinct, piping up with his usual tact as they were all gathered around a collage of enlarged photo IDs, pretty smiling faces unaware of the horror in store: "Hey, Lieu, you got any sisters we don't know about?"

At that point there were only three known rapes and one homicide attributed to the man some press vulture with a penchant for alliteration had dubbed the "Manhattan Mangler." Since then, his portfolio had expanded at an alarming rate, a new victim appearing near the end of the month for the past three months.

"And now lucky number seven," Fin said, thinking aloud as he crouched beside Amanda for a closer look at the ligature marks on Jane Doe's wrists. Both were encircled by thick plum-colored bruises with a telltale braid indentation. He sighed. "Man, why'd my rope guy have to go and be a whack job?"

Amanda cracked a small smile, hunched shoulders relaxing slightly beneath the contradictory layers of a chambray button down, camel hair blazer and oversized NYPD bomber. Her bubblegum pink cheeks and occasional sniffle belied the warm attire. "Still not over that one, huh?

He humphed in reply and leaned in to examine the cluster of pink wheals Amanda pointed to on the victim's lower abdomen. Cigarette burns were a fairly new addition to the Mangler's signature, but not a particularly original form of torture among sadists. At best they were cliché compared to his handiwork with a blade.

"If she's number seven, why's she got nine burns here? Kyra had eight," Amanda said thoughtfully.

Fin decided to ignore her little slip. God knew they had all gotten too involved with this case when referring to the dead on a first name basis didn't even raise an eyebrow. But after weeks of staring at their pictures on the murder board, digging through their day planners and text messages, comforting their distraught relatives, and paying them regular visits at the morgue, reducing the women to numbers in a sequence of attacks felt nothing short of callous.

Sixth in line, Kyra Jacobs was also the youngest to die so far, just a few days short of her 28th birthday. Her identification process had been brutal; the mother screamed when the sheet was pulled back, and she couldn't look at Benson without bursting into tears. Too many unfulfilled dreams brought to an end.

The lieutenant had spent the rest of that day looking like she wanted to puke.

"Who knows with this freak. Maybe he can't do math." Fin got to his feet, swiping dirt off the knees of his pants and trying not to feel so relieved when an officer stepped forward to cover the body.

Amanda shook her head and remained bent over the corpse, barely seeming to notice the white sheet that now concealed it. "Nah. He's smart. Otherwise we would've caught him already. Maybe there's more vics we haven't found yet?"

"Could be, but why hide some and practically drop the rest on our doorstep? He gets off on this shit, Rollins. We're out here chasing our tails while he carves up pretty girls like Sunday brisket." Fin snapped off his latex gloves, wadded them into a ball and sunk it the nearest garbage can without a glance. Cause for raised fists and a slap on the back from Carisi during happier times.

Brow furrowed deeply, Amanda shook her head again and stood up. "It's gotta mean something. We're this close to finding the dirtbag, if we could just—"

"Well, that's great," Fin said, cutting her off mid-sentence and mid-step as he headed for his black Crown Vic parked among the half-dozen patrol cars that lined the street. "Let me know when you bust him. I'll be back at the house trying to ID our Jane Doe."

"Hey, what's your problem?" Amanda trotted ahead to block his hasty retreat, hands up in surrender. "I don't like this anymore than you do, y'know."

She sounded more confused than angry, and a twinge of guilt instantly diffused Fin's ill temper when he met her questioning gaze. Like it or not, big bad Sergeant Tutuola had a soft spot for the pert blonde detective. The Georgia twang and kid-sister ponytail swishing perpetually behind her had a way of wheedling into your affections after a while. If he was being honest with himself, he felt more fondness for Amanda than just about anyone else, save his son and grandchild.

Or maybe he was getting soft in his old age.

"Sorry," he said, bumping her shoulder with his own. "Didn't mean to lose my cool."

"You? Never."

Fin smiled. "Right. Man, I hate this case. And now I gotta go bother the lieutenant on her day off and tell her someone else got sliced and diced. 'Hey, Liv, call the nanny. Got another hacked up body with your face on it.'"

"That what's really bugging you?" Amanda asked gently, feigning interest in the boot she was scuffing in a patch of curbside gravel. "Having to tell her... or is it trying not to imagine that's her lying over there in the dirt?"

He kicked at a pebble she had dislodged from the ground, and they watched it sail into the street like they were skipping rocks on the lakeshore. "Little of both, I guess. She barely gets quality time with her kid as it is. Doesn't need to spend it looking over her shoulder, wondering if she's next."

"This might not be about her. Serials all have a type. The resemblance to Liv is probably a coincidence."

Even as the words left her mouth, Fin could tell she didn't believe them. Neither did he. And neither, he ventured, would Olivia, although she stonewalled most attempts to talk about a possible connection between herself and the Mangler victims. His ass would get canned for sure if he so much as breathed the phrase "security detail."

Benson's stubborn streak drove him damn near crazy at times, but it was also one of the qualities he admired most in her. They didn't come more steadfast and true than his lieutenant.

"Want me to call her?" Amanda offered, head tilted in sympathy. Her ponytail hung sideways, fluttering in the breeze.

"Nah," he said, with a light chuckle, "I can handle the boss lady. Do me a favor and make sure those bozos don't screw up our evidence, though." He motioned over his shoulder at the group still milling around the corpse and picking through the brush nearby. "I wanna nail this prick. Sooner, the better.

"Copy that, Sarge."

Amanda spun on her boot heel, moving with a quick, clipped little stride and snapping several heads to attention with a bellow cultivated by years at the racetrack and other noisy sporting events:

"All right, people, let's get this processed and back to the lab ASAP! Let's go!"

Fin watched after her for a moment with a swelling sense of pride. Then it was right back to cop mode.


	2. Disarm

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for the review and kudos on chapter 1! Just wanted to clarify-the story is set around the same time that season 20 started, but it's going in a completely different direction from the show. In other words, SPOILER ALERT! Amanda won't be up the duff at any point in this fic. END SPOILER ALERT! I may have fudged a few other minor details here and there to suit the plot, but hopefully nothing too drastic. P.S. Added a cover image to the first chapter. Check it out, 'cause I think it's pretty rad (FYI, starbuck81 is my Tumblr name and preferred online alias, that's why I used it on the cover instead of chief_johnson). Hope you like chapter 2.

* * *

 "Disarm you with a smile  
And cut you like you want me to  
Cut that little child  
Inside of me and such a part of you"

\- THE SMASHING PUMPKINS

* * *

 **CHAPTER 2:**  Disarm

"Son of a—"

Olivia caught herself at the very last second, eyes landing on her six-year-old son who sat across the table from her, coloring on a gigantic sheet of brown butcher paper.

"Sea biscuit," she concluded, hoping the ridiculous expression would go unnoticed by Noah and by the voice on the phone.

It didn't.

"What?" said Noah, crayon skidding to a halt.

"Huh?" said Fin.

Olivia could picture him pulling the cell phone away from his ear to stare at the weird white lady on the other end.

"Nothing. Eat your fries and don't eavesdrop on Mommy." Fixing Noah with a mock stern look, Olivia tapped her fingernail on the wide-rimmed plate that housed a partially gnawed hamburger and a mound of golden steak fries. Her son's eyes were often bigger than his stomach, especially when she took him to lunch at his favorite diner.

Wide grin exposing two absent bottom teeth, Noah ducked behind his tumbler of chocolate milk. He peered up at her with one eye through the textured amber plastic. "I see biscuits," he whispered, giggling.

"Ok, I'm gonna assume you got the little man with you, otherwise this is the strangest conversation we've had in twenty years," Fin said, his tone amused.

"Yeah, I'm sorry. Noah's making me rethink my stance on censorship laws, aren't you, my love?" She reached over to ruffle his hair and in the same swift motion rescued his milk from drenching the entire tabletop. Pinning the phone between her ear and shoulder, she waved him to sit flat in his booster seat and please take a few more bites. "He misses nothing, Fin. It's like living with a miniature IAB officer."

The sergeant's laughter brought a smile to Olivia's face, in spite of the bad news he came bearing. Another dead girl, another dead ringer. It was enough to put her off the remainder of her tuna salad on whole wheat, but she was trying to set a good example for Noah, the pickiest eater in all five boroughs.

After thanking Fin for keeping her apprised—and promising several times not to show up at the precinct until work tomorrow morning—Olivia bid goodbye to her sergeant.

"Take care, Moms," he said, casual, easy, and fooling no one. "Tell the Notorious N.P.B. his Uncle Fin says hey."

"I will." Olivia pocketed her iPhone, taking a moment to absorb the information she'd received and mentally damning the piece of crap who was responsible. A small, hard knot had formed in the pit of her stomach, but if the job had taught her anything, it was how to compartmentalize. Don't bring your work home with you, don't let the perp get into your head, don't give in to fear. And when all else fails, remember Dr. Lindstrom's breathing exercises.

She drew a deep, steadying breath through her nostrils, exhaled it slowly between pursed lips, then burst into laughter.

Two massive French fries dangled from the corners of Noah's mouth, trapped by his upper lip, which sported a glistening milk mustache. Making guttural walrus noises, he attempted to dip his new tusks in a tiny paper container of ketchup. (Condiments must only touch food on a voluntary basis, according to Noah Porter Benson.) He paused to see what was so funny and one of the dunked fries plopped onto the table. It left behind an aura of red specks when he picked it up and chomped it in half.

"Mama, why'd you say I see biscuits?" he asked around the mouthful.

"Hm?" Olivia rescued the other fry from a similar fate, absentmindedly taking a bite as she wiped the ketchup off Noah's colorful placemat.

They favored this diner because of the bouquet of chunky Crayolas and the long strips of sturdy paper torn from an endless roll that were deposited by a waitress in front of every child below the age of ten. Hours of fun for a creative boy, and yards of artwork to adorn the walls at home. It didn't hurt that the cozy little eatery also had the best cappuccinos in the neighborhood. They served the hot, frothy drink in mugs the size of soup tureens.

Olivia contemplated the remaining half of her sandwich, then cast a longing glance at the coffee machines behind the counter. Seated at the row of stools in front, a young woman with a round pretty face and tousled bob of ginger hair was smiling in her direction. It wasn't unusual to find complete strangers beaming at her and her son—he was damn adorable, after all—and Olivia reciprocated politely.

"You know!" Noah raised his voice as if she were hard of hearing. "You told Uncle Fin your son sees biscuits."

"Oh? Oh." Olivia pressed a hand over her mouth to hide her amusement. "No, honey, I said  _sea_  biscuit. S-e-a, like the ocean."

His face scrunched up the same way it did whenever they were reading bedtime stories and came across a word he didn't understand. "But what's a sea biscuit?"

"Well, there used to be a famous racehorse named Seabiscuit. And I think it's some kind of food sailors used to eat."

Tapped out on the particulars of equine nomenclature and ship cuisine, she handed over her phone so he could consult Siri on the matter. She resumed munching happily on her sandwich and sea salt chips as she watched him navigate the device more easily than even she herself sometimes could.

After spending the first several months of his life fretting over verbal skills and developmental delays, it delighted Olivia to hear her son communicate so well with the digital assistant. He was ahead of the other kindergartners in reading and writing, too. Occasionally he inverted a letter or number—mostly E's and 3's—but his teacher assured her that was very common for children Noah's age. None of his other classmates could write out their entire name, address, and mother's phone number. She worried about making him neurotic with too many games and quizzes about personal information, but each time he brought home a drawing entitled "16TH PRESINK" or "MY FAMLEE," complete with bobble-headed figures wearing huge cherry red grins and police blues, her fears were assuaged.

"Is that Uncle Fin riding a horse?" she asked, pointing to the man-shaped blob Noah was coloring in with the rather fabulously named shade of _cafe au lait_. Goateed and waving, the caricature sat astride a bandy-legged horse with a brown coat and an exceptionally long body.

"Uh-huh. It's his trusty steed, Mister Milkshake," Noah said slyly. He nibbled his hamburger in one hand while the other scrawled jagged parallel waves along the bottom of the paper. They looked like dark blue jigsaw blades.

"Oh, it is, huh?"

"Yep." He plucked up the brown again and drew something roughly trapezoidal floating on the choppy waters. "Now I'm gonna make you captain on a pirate ship 'cause you're the best mommy in the whole wide world."

Olivia chuckled. "And here I thought the bad guys were tricky," she said, motioning the waitress over. She ordered Noah a strawberry shake—no other flavor would do—and succumbed to the lure of designer coffee. Finishing off her meal with gusto, she dusted the crumbs from her hands, already anticipating wrapping them around the sweet, creamy cappuccino.

"Sergeant Benson?"

"It's Lieutenant, actually." Olivia responded on reflex, then wished she'd held her tongue when she turned towards the speaker. It was the young woman who had smiled at her a moment ago. Up close she was just a kid, probably no more than eighteen or nineteen. Vaguely familiar, but not someone Olivia had dealt with recently. She seldom forgot a face.

"Hi," she added, hoping for a hint to help place this one.

"You don't remember me, do you?"

Busted.

"I'm sorry," Olivia said, head tilted in apology, still searching for clues in the girl's amused expression. The eyes were blue-green, stormy, but offset by quirked lips glossy with a fresh coat of balm; the hair a touch too red to be natural, but youth and a fair complexion made it work. Tying it all together was an eccentric sense of style: black turtleneck tucked into high-waisted jeans with rolled cuffs and paint splotches, a patchwork smock that almost grazed the floor, a pair of scuffed Oxfords.

Whether the clothes were trendy or scavenged from grandma's attic, Olivia couldn't tell, but they had a cute ragamuffin appeal, like the orphan costumes in a production of  _Annie_. The kids in that show were probably more menacing than this girl, so it caught Olivia completely off guard when a jolt of anxiety suddenly left her shaky and perspiring.

"I, uh— sorry," she stammered, tucking both hands under her thighs to prevent nervous gesturing. "I know we've met, but I'm... having a senior moment."

"No, it's okay!" the girl laughed, appearing unaware of the effect she was having. "It's been a long time since we saw each other. I was shorter back then. And blonder." She flashed two rows of perfect white teeth and thrust out her hand. "I'm Millie. Well, you knew me as Amelia. Amelia Cole."

_Look away, Amelia._

The words echoed so loudly in Olivia's ears she didn't even hear her son exclaim, "Amelia Bedelia!" as he snatched up the orange crayon and doodled a redhead alongside the blonde and brunette pirates in his boat. For a moment he was no longer seated across from her, and she was no longer in the safety of their special Sunday restaurant. For a moment she could feel the edge of a table pressed against her pelvis, the heat of a rock-solid presence behind her, the deadly weight of metal in her hand and at her temple. And the click.

Forever that click.

Five years had passed since William Lewis bent her over a rusty workbench and forced her to play Russian Roulette in front of little Amelia Cole—but sometimes it was yesterday. She wondered if Amelia ever still felt the bindings on her wrists, cutting off circulation, chaffing skin raw.

 _I do_ , Olivia thought.

She released her hands from their self-imposed prison, needing them desperately to be free. A quick shake expelled the tingling and brought her back to reality, where Noah had picked up the slack and introduced himself, accepting Amelia's outstretched palm.

To the girl's credit, she didn't recoil from the sticky ketchup and chocolate milk stains; instead, she gave an exaggerated bow and affected a British accent. "A pleasure to meet you, my good sir," she said, using her thumb to wipe off most of his partially dried mustache.

Noah giggled and kept hold of her hand, swinging it at his side. He'd found a new BFF.

"Amelia. Oh my God," Olivia said, recovering her voice and mobility enough to stand and offer a hug. She no longer needed to stoop down, although she still had at least three inches on the girl. "It's so good to see you."

Only a small lie. Being terrorized together at gun point by a psychopath and dealing with the fallout of his suicide didn't leave much opportunity for bonding. She remembered Amelia as a sweet kid, shell-shocked from so much trauma, but brave. Olivia had every intention of staying in contact with her after their ordeal, but the surviving members of the Cole family had needed space to grieve. Meanwhile, Olivia was in the throes of a PTSD-relapse, barely sleeping twenty minutes at a stretch and phoning Dr. Lindstrom at all hours.

By the time she had pulled herself together, life took another unexpected turn in the form of motherhood. Obviously, she knew how to spot avoidance coping a mile away—saw it in countless victims over the years—but reasoned that Noah had to come first. She couldn't risk being triggered again while trying to raise a baby. Or a toddler. Or a preschooler...

It would have been ludicrous to call by that point, even though just last year she'd stumbled across an obituary for Thomas Cole, preceded in death by wife Janice, survived by loving daughters Lauren and Amelia.

Yeah, she really dropped the ball on this one.

"I know! It's been way too long." Amelia returned the hug warmly, holding on tight as if they were the dearest of friends. "I kept meaning to call, but—" The stack of bracelets on her wrist jangled when she made a broad gesture. "Life."

"I completely understand," Olivia said, a tad relieved she didn't have to broach the subject. Her panic attack had more or less subsided as well, and she kept a steady hand on the girl's arm when they separated. "I didn't even have this little guy last time we spoke."

"I didn't think so. I would've remembered a cutie like him," Amelia said, giving Noah's hair a light ruffle. "He looks just like you, by the way. Same smile. Must get those killer blue eyes from Daddy, though."

Olivia had heard so many variations of the same comment from well-meaning but misguided strangers that it barely fazed her anymore. Her heart did break a little when Noah, without ever leaving his make-believe world where Odafin Tutuola rode ponies across oceans, and pirates were predominantly female, piped in, "I don't have a daddy. It's just me and Mommy. And Lucy."

The flush creeping up Amelia's cheeks set her already bright roots ablaze. "Shit." She covered her mouth quickly, wide eyes darting from Olivia to the six-year-old within earshot, and back again. "I mean shoot! I didn't realize you were— Not that there's anything wrong with that, I mean— I just thought..." Pleadingly, she gazed up through long eyelashes, looking very much her childhood self. "Help."

"Amelia honey, breathe." Olivia laughed gently, giving the girl's arm a reassuring squeeze. "It's okay. Lucy's the nanny."

The waitress arrived then, rescuing Amelia from her faux pas and delivering a soda fountain glass brimming with a whipped cream cloud and enough pink milkshake to make Noah's eyes go buggy. Olivia's mouth watered at the sight of her own liquid dessert, but she managed not to pounce quite like her son, whose nose and lips were already covered in white fluff. Instead, she pulled an extra chair up to the end of the table, urging Amelia to sit as she did the same. She did slip her hands around the cup, though. Instant relaxation.

"So, how are you doing? You look incredible," Olivia said with sincerity. "You're what now, eighteen?"

"Yep, last May." Amelia sat down, folded the sides of her smock into her lap, and plopped the crocheted bag from her shoulder on top. "I feel ancient."

Olivia snorted. "Oh yeah, you've practically got one foot in the grave," she said, eyes rolling above the brim of her cappuccino as she took a careful sip.

"I'm serious! You try taking care of a baby  _and_  working all day, everyday. Well, okay, you've done that, but I'm, like, going prematurely gray over here." Amelia lifted a lock of her brilliantly colored hair. "Why do you think I dye this?"

"Wait. You have a baby?" Olivia set her cup down a little too hard on its saucer. She frowned at the droplets that escaped—a few less to be savored—and soaked them up with a napkin.

"I didn't tell you that yet? See, my mind's going too. Next I'll be gumming oatmeal and peeing my pants."

("Ewww!" cried Noah, who continued slurping milkshake through a long, striped straw.)

Rummaging through her bag, Amelia pulled out a cell phone with a hardshell case depicting some sort of forest deity, his hoary old face protruding from the bark of a decrepit oak tree. "I designed it myself," she said, noticing Olivia eyeing the rather creepy scene. "I'm an artist. Hence, the paint streaks." She patted her denim-clad knee, then swiped at the phone screen a few times.

"Aha, here's my baby girl. Her name's Matilda. Tilly, for short. Millie and Tilly, get it? She's three months old."

Olivia squinted at the proffered photograph and felt around for her glasses. She finally found them propped on top of her head when Noah pointed up. Pretty soon she was going to have to wear them on a chain. Talk about feeling like an old lady.

"Oh, sweetie, she's beautiful," Olivia cooed as the image came into focus. Fawning over babies was probably the next step in granny-hood, but she didn't care. Tilly was an exceptionally pretty baby.

Most infants looked mildly disoriented at best, others downright intoxicated, while having their picture snapped. Tilly gazed straight into the camera, a delicate smile on her perfect rosebud lips. Naked except for a pink satin ribbon held in place by a dainty headband, she lay on a fuzzy pink blanket, her tiny ivory body swaddled artfully in its folds. What little hair she had so far gave off a coppery sheen, her eyes agleam like sapphires.

Warmth, pleasant and soothing, bloomed in Olivia's chest, but whether it was the result of the child's angelic portrait or the cappuccino, she couldn't be sure.

"I know, right? She looks just like the baby pictures of my mom. But there's some of her daddy in there, too. He's the one that took this picture. He's super talented, don't you think? Oh my God, you should totally bring Noah by our studio sometime so he can do your portraits!" Amelia practically squealed with delight as she shuffled through a few more photos, thrusting the phone towards Olivia again.

This time there was a selfie on the screen, Amelia's arm extended to capture the overhead shot. In the other she cradled her daughter, asleep in a lacy white christening gown. Crouched over to fit in the frame, a young man peeked out from behind the baby's frilly bonnet. Judging from his slim build, unkempt hair, and steel blue eyes, sharp behind wire-rimmed spectacles, he looked about twenty or so. But it was hard to tell without seeing the rest of him.

"That's him. His name's Carl. He's camera shy. I always tease him because how can a photographer be camera shy?" Amelia shrugged and turned the phone around to smile at the picture. "He's a weirdo, but I love him like crazy."

"I'm happy for you," Olivia said, taking a measured sip as she considered how to proceed. Amelia wasn't even out of her teens yet and already a mother, nor was she wearing a wedding ring. Olivia wondered how great this Carl could actually be if he hadn't bothered proposing to the girl he'd knocked up ten seconds after high school. Then again, at least he had stuck around, which was more than Olivia could say for any of the men in her life. If the young couple had found a family dynamic that worked for them, who was she to judge?

Still, she couldn't turn off her cop instincts—not completely. "How long have you two been together?" she asked casually.

"About a year. Whirlwind romance, I know. We met right after my dad..." Amelia glanced sidelong at Noah and mouthed, "Passed away." She tucked the phone back into her bag, closing the top clasp with an abrupt click. "I was kind of a mess after that. Carl pulled me through. I probably wouldn't have graduated without him. Now he's encouraging me to get my art degree."

"He sounds like a good guy."

"He is. The best. I just wish my dad had gotten the chance to meet him. And his granddaughter."

Guilt crept over Olivia, but she forced herself not to avert her gaze. You never turned away from the victims. Maybe Amelia wasn't that little girl tied up in William Lewis' house of horrors anymore, but Olivia would always feel responsible for her, to some extent. If she had told the truth about beating Lewis from the beginning, the Cole family might never have been touched by his special brand of evil.

"I heard about your father," she admitted slowly, the knot in her stomach from earlier clenched tighter than ever. She reached over to place her hand on Amelia's with slight hesitance, as if it might be rebuffed. "I'm so sorry. I wish I could've been there to offer some support."

No excuses. None would suffice.

Amelia curled her fingers around Olivia's, opposite hand resting heavily on top. "It's okay, Liv. You had a lot going on, I get it. Besides that, it was a very small service. Dad never liked a big fuss. He's the last of the family anyway, besides me and Tilly."

Now only nursing his milkshake occasionally, Noah had been observing the exchange with mild interest. He selected the nub that had once been a black crayon and began tracing the outline of his flattened palm on the drawing paper. Next, he confiscated Olivia's available hand from its cozy spot against the coffee mug and traced it alongside his own. And finally, with a bit of daring, he tugged Amelia's uppermost hand over to join the lineup.

Olivia watched the whole process in contemplative silence, unaware her features had hardened into a scowl she normally reserved for perps in the box. "What about your sister?" she asked, resurfacing from the deep tunnel of thought so suddenly it made her blink at the brightness pouring in through the diner's plate glass windows.

"Oh, duh! Lauren too, of course." Amelia slipped free from Olivia's grasp to butt a palm against her own forehead. "What'd I tell you? Oatmeal and Depends, here I come. I'd forget my own head if it wasn't screwed on."

"How do you spell Amelia?" Noah asked, head bent over the somewhat inflated handprints he'd captured. They looked more like Mickey Mouse gloves than human extremities, but he was labeling each one in his large childish scrawl, for future reference. A study in concentration, his face mirrored his mother's almost exactly, except for the sliver of pink tongue that poked from the corner of his mouth.

"M-I-L..."

"How's she doing?" Olivia asked when the girl paused to let Noah copy each letter.

"...L-I-E." Amelia nodded encouragement as her name—gritty, askew, and with a backwards E—was transcribed next to the legends  _NOAH_  and  _MOM_. "She's great. Busy with school and stuff, but I get her to let loose once in awhile. Actually, I'm headed to her place for lunch right now. Just grabbing some takeout because neither of us can cook to save our lives. Guess that's what happens when you grow up without a mom."

Before the sting of the last comment had fully dissipated, the waitress appeared with a white carry out bag and a check.

"Right on cue," Amelia said, fishing around in her purse for a wallet. She opened her mouth to protest when Olivia intercepted the bill, sliding it out of reach across the table with her fingertip.

"I got it." Olivia's hand went up to quash any further objections. She gave an affirming nod to the waitress, who drifted away looking like she didn't care who paid for what, as long as a tip was involved.

"Are you sure?"

"Positive."

"Lieutenant Benson," Amelia said rhetorically and grinned, shaking her head as if surprised by her own sheer luck. "It really is good to see you again. I wish we had more time to chat—" Her eyes lit up, and a second later she whipped a business card from inside her purse. "Here. That's my apartment. Promise me you'll come visit soon. I can show you the studio where me and Carl create our masterpieces, and you can meet Matilda. Promise?"

Printed on premium grade stock, solid black with a gloss finish, the card featured the same design as Amelia's phone cover. Embossed for three-dimensional effect, the oak tree's face was even more unsettling. Gothic-style white text stood out against the dark background, proclaiming:

 **Sylvestris Deus Arts  
** _Photography & Mixed Media_

Below that, in a smaller, more legible font, the names Carl Silvanis and Millie Cole were followed by a Chelsea address and phone number. Not too far from the precinct, Olivia noted.

"I'm not leaving until I hear you say it," Amelia goaded, even as she gathered up her fragrant lunch and stood to go.

There were few other options but to comply. "I promise," Olivia said, releasing a choked little laugh when Amelia threw both arms around her shoulders and gave a quick, fierce squeeze.

"I'll hold you to it." Amelia pointed to show she meant business, then blew several air kisses, pausing beside Noah for another ambush hug and a peck on the cheek. "I'm always around, so stop by whenever. Bring your boy so my girl has someone to play with. See you later!"

Half the diner heard the last few bars of Amelia's salutation as she backed towards the door, waving animatedly. And just as quickly as she had reappeared on Olivia's radar, she was gone once again.

"Wow," said Noah, looking dazed and a bit windblown, as if he'd just stepped out of a hurricane into dead calm.

"Huh," Olivia concurred, tracking the girl's departure through the nearest window, until her vivid form was swallowed up by a crowd of business suits crossing the street.

"I like her."

Olivia pulled her gaze away from the bustling city outside, back to her sweet boy and their happy place. "Me too," she said, returning his broad smile. It slipped for a moment when, raising the cappuccino to her lips, she caught a glimpse of the bill next to her saucer. The price was fine—fourteen bucks wouldn't break the bank. But a grilled cheese and eight ounce soup for two people? Odd.

Shrugging it off as another idiosyncrasy, of which Amelia (or rather, Millie) seemed to have many, Olivia picked up a crayon and began coloring with her son. Seconds later they were both giggling helplessly at her inability to draw so much as a simple stick figure.


	3. Diabolic

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for the chapter 2 reviews/kudos. I feel like I should mention that this fic is already completed--at this point, I'm just editing/polishing things up before I post each chapter. So any similarities between upcoming events and currently airing episodes are purely coincidental. Enjoy. And as always, reviews are love. <3

* * *

 "So when you look at me  
You better look hard and look twice  
Is that me, baby  
Or just a brilliant disguise?"

\- BRUCE SPRINGSTEEN

* * *

 **CHAPTER 3:**  Diabolic

 _Lana Reyes, 37. Social worker. Single mother of two. Raped in home by masked, gloved assailant. Threatened with blade. Shallow cuts on breasts and abdomen. Symbol on chest: possible letter_ L _? For Lana?_

 _Naomi Cohen, 40. RN. Married mother of four. Raped in home by man in ski mask. Held straight razor to her throat. Multiple slashes on breasts, abdomen, thighs. Symbol/glyph: single vertical line. Number 1? Capital_ I _? Lowercase_ L _?_

_Rosalind McDonnell, 35. Court reporter. Single, 1 child. Raped in parking garage. Ski mask, straight razor, traces of spermicide. Wrists bound w/ duct tape. Deep cuts to entire body. Glyph: looks like keyboard backslash (\\)._

And those were just the victims who survived. None could provide a detailed description of the attacker, or much of a vague one, either. Naomi got the best look at him because he stayed with her longest, but even then, all she remembered was a white male with light colored eyes, possibly blue or green. Too frightened for her twin toddlers' safety, Lana had obeyed his every command and squeezed her eyes shut the entire time. She recalled him having a slight build, though physically strong. Rosalind, who at five feet, five inches was the shortest victim, thought he must be well over six foot tall the way he had loomed above her in the dim garage lighting.

The one thing they could all agree on was his youth. He spoke often and softly, complementing their beauty, their feminine curves, their way with children. Shy, almost. "He sounded like my seventeen-year-old when he's on the phone with his girlfriend," Naomi had said tearfully, shuddering as she recounted the tenderness that morphed into unimaginable violence and left her bloody and bandaged in a hospital bed. Literally scarred for life.

Then there were the women who would never get to share their stories. They would never describe how gently their rapist had stroked their hair, apologizing when the strands caught on his black latex gloves ( _scrap found at scene of McDonnell residence, dead end_ ). Or how he asked to be told what a good boy he was as he entered them, not once but over and over again, his arousal never quite sated ( _two hours w/ Naomi_ ).

For these four women, the only contribution they could provide were the bodies they left behind as proof their attacker was evolving, perfecting his technique. Valerie Hosteen—a 45-year-old realtor with one grown daughter and a devoted husband who wept like a small child whenever he spoke of her—had been the first to offer herself up as evidence; her corpse exhibited the most abuse, with so many razor marks the examiner had stopped counting, as if the killer went into such a frenzy he'd lost all control. Perhaps it was the foray into abduction that excited him so ( _transports vics to second location, probably within radius of dumpsites_ ).

Valerie's glyph was a forward slash ( _/_ ).

Delia Shahi, 39, a pet groomer whose wife watched their three kids while she attended night school, fared a little better than her experimental predecessor—but not much. Though fewer, the cuts were deeper. Some struck bone, including the single vertical line on her sternum, identical to the one on Naomi. She would have required extensive reconstruction surgery on her breasts and labia, had she lived. And she'd fought like hell to do just that ( _multiple defensive wounds, broken wrist, split fingernails, self-inflicted tongue lac_ ). Hers was also the first body to display cigarette burns, blessedly inflicted post-mortem.

Sweet Kyra Jacobs—waitress, 28; live-in boyfriend; no kids, but a niece she loved like a daughter, and two Yorkies named Baby and Johnny— hadn't fought at all. She threw up at some point during her captivity ( _no stomach contents, emesis in hair match to vic_ ). Whether from fear or the drug used to subdue her, it was anybody's guess. Her once pristine flesh gave the gashes an oddly superficial quality, like a transparent overlay placed on top of a projector image. But they were all too real. The damage to her reproductive organs would have left her barren. Childless Kyra was to remain childless forever. ( _Glyph: single vertical line. Roman numerals? Binary code?_ )

Finally and most recently, Margo Tóth, 42. High school art teacher. It took less than eight hours to identify the body, thanks to concerned coworkers and a frantic husband who showed up at the precinct with two adolescent boys in tow, looking like Third World refugees, anxious and displaced. Less forthcoming was the trace evidence on Margo's thigh, which yielded no DNA or viable fingerprints and took an entire day for the lab to analyze. It turned out to be gesso, a substance Mr. Tóth confirmed his wife handled frequently for student projects. Like each of the dead women before her, she had been wiped down with an alcohol solution, making forensics collection a bitch. ( _Rape vics were bathed, MO changed out of preference or necessity?_ )

But maybe, just maybe, that white, thumbprint-shaped smear ( _no ridge detail_ ) was a sign the Manhattan Mangler had gotten sloppy. Serial killers didn't usually devolve, but one could hope.

The glyph he had assigned Margo Tóth: a backward letter  _F_.

Olivia stared at the grisly photo of the woman's engraved chest for so long its phantom afterimage floated behind her eyelids when she closed them. Letting the picture drop back into the open folder on her desk, she removed her glasses and leaned back in her chair, pinching the bridge of her nose. She was gearing up for a migraine, no doubt about it.

That's what happened when you spent the entire morning pouring over case files, squinting at reports typed in minuscule text by officers who failed to heed low ink cartridge warnings, and rereading such poetic gems as "rubbed his penis between her breasts to achieve erection" until they were committed to memory verbatim. At least protocol prevented it from being referred to as "titty-fucking," a deplorable term Olivia heard was getting tossed around by the good ol' boys and a few uni punks whose badge numbers she would love to know. Although, that might have been preferable to deciphering the godawful chicken scratch in Carisi's notes.

 _'Titfuck Rapist Strikes Again!'_ , she considered, envisioning the grainy front page shot of a crumpled, blood-stained bra that would accompany the headline.

_'Killer Takes Another Stroll Down Mammary Lane!'_

_'Free Boob Job with Every Assault!'_

On second thought, bring on the chicken scratch.

She scrubbed a palm across her face and pushed away from the desk with the other. The telltale pulsing on the right side of her skull became a brain-numbing throb when she stood up. Wincing, she clutched that side of her head until the subsequent nausea passed. She'd been getting these damn migraines ever since the concussion she sustained during the first Lewis attack, but they had worsened considerably after the second. Perhaps a result of the injury, according to Dr. Lindstrom, but more likely a psychosomatic response to stress. William Lewis, the gift that just kept on giving.

Feeling like she might scream if confined to her office much longer, she grabbed her glasses, purse, and jacket, and headed for the media room. Carisi was there, making love to a box of Krispy Kreme donuts. He licked chocolate icing off his fingers and waggled the box under her nose as she joined him in front of the flat-screen monitor.

"Help yourself, Lieu," he said, completely oblivious to the clump of fried dough and custard stuck to his chin.

Olivia eyed the pastries, sorely tempted by the raspberry-filled glazed tucked away behind a cruller. She partook of the squad's ubiquitous sweets as seldom as possible—on behalf of her health and her waistline—but this morning had been rushed; Noah, her little sloth baby, was especially difficult to rouse for school, and her breakfast cocktail of raisins, cereal, low fat milk and a boatload of coffee had been shorted a cup. No wonder she simultaneously wanted to eat the pastry schmutz straight off Carisi's face and fall asleep against his chest.

Pushing the box back at him, she lied, "Not hungry." She couldn't stand there pigging out while the doleful faces of seven tortured women—some dead, some wishing they were—looked down on her in chronological order from the wall-to-wall timeline. Faces she was told so closely matched her own.

She would have to be blind not to see the similarities, but she refused to believe that was the only reason these women had suffered such horrors.

_Please, God, don't let it be the only reason._

"Where are we on those Jersey cold cases?" Bleary-eyed, Olivia scanned the screen and marker boards for any new information, knowing full well nothing had been added in the hour since she last checked.

When the call came in that a couple of unsolved Newark break-ins from 2013 could potentially be linked to Manhattan's latest serial, everyone in her unit had held their breath. Dealing with Jersey was like happening upon a skittish doe in the woods—any sudden movement would frighten it away. But the time for pussyfooting around had passed. Like it or not, Jersey was going to play ball, even if it meant Olivia had to storm the precinct herself.

"Just waiting on Fin to wrap it up with that DV collar, then we're heading over there to see what we can finagle." Carisi's chewing grew substantially louder, until Olivia finally glanced up and found him grinning ear to ear. "Get it?" he said. "Fin. Finagle."

"What? Oh. Ha ha."

"Aw, come on. I've been saving that one up for, like, four years."

"I think Munch beat you to it somewhere around '06." Olivia smirked at him to soften the blow. Her sense of humor wasn't completely extinguished after all, just a bit watered down at the moment.

"Munch beat me to the punch," Carisi said, snuffing at his own corny joke and chasing the Boston cream with an apple fritter. Oh, to have the metabolism of a 36-year-old man-child.

"You got a little." Olivia tapped her chin, resisting the urge to spit-shine the donut crumbs from his face, like she would for Noah. She had been warned that, despite her position of authority (or because of, depending how you looked at it), she would ultimately be viewed as a maternal figure by her subordinates. What she hadn't been prepared for was her own motherly affection towards the squad.

And if the SVU detectives were her children, then Dominick "Sonny" Carisi, Jr., with his boyish charm and eternal optimism that bordered on naïveté, was definitely the baby of the family. Fin, stalwart and self-reliant, was the eldest, a big brother who might pick on his younger siblings but made damn sure no one else ever tried it. Which just left Amanda, the middle child in every sense of the term: oftentimes rebellious, convinced she was the least favorite, but in fact a gifted mediator and vital part of the team.

"You feeling okay?" Carisi asked, breaking into the reverie. He indicated the two fingers Olivia was absently massaging against her right temple. "Got another headache?"

She made a noncommittal sound, hating that the migraines—psychic or not—were a matter of public knowledge, and stuffed both hands deep into her pockets. "Not enough caffeine this morning," she said, shrugging it off.

"That stuff'll kill ya."

Quirking an eyebrow, Olivia watched him destroy a cruller in two bites. "Yeah, I should really cut back," she said dryly.

"I got some Tylenol in my desk. You want?"

"Think I'll just grab some Starbucks. Take a break from all this for a minute." Olivia made a passing gesture at the murder board ( _wants to possess victims entirely, kills when they don't live up to his fantasy_ ) and turned from it abruptly. On her way towards the elevators, she called over her shoulder, "Let me know what you finagle out of Jersey. Use finesse."

"I dunno, they're pretty finicky," Carisi shot back.

His hoots of laughter could be heard halfway down the hall, but it was the brisk clacking from a pair of familiar boot heels that caught Olivia's ear. Her very own Jan Brady, every bit as fair-haired and blue-eyed as the original, approached from the other end of the hall, brandishing a folder.

"Got a hit on those prints you asked me to run," Amanda said as they met up in front of the closed elevator doors. She allowed herself to be guided towards the opposite wall, away from the flow of traffic, Olivia's hand at the small of her back.

"That fast?"

The detective's quick draw was why Olivia had chosen her for the task in the first place, but a little ego-stroking for the middle child never hurt. She accepted the file and flipped it open, relieved to find only a single sheet of paper inside. Good sign.

"Gotta keep the boss happy."

Eyes narrowed, Olivia extended her glasses and scanned a lens across the page. She would have read the entire document if not for the sensation that an ice pick was lodged firmly in her frontal lobe. For now, every other sentence would suffice.

Some petty theft here, a little underage tobacco possession there. Nothing too serious. The sealed juvie record raised a red flag, but wasn't all that surprising given the individual's tumultuous past.

"Amelia Cole?" Amanda cast a wary glance upward, as if expecting a reprimand for snooping. When none came she leaned in confidentially, voice dropping to a murmur. "Isn't that the kid who was taken hostage with you?"

Olivia noted the absence of her captor's name and silently blessed Amanda for it. That subtlety was another reason she'd been chosen to dig into Amelia's background. Add in a tendency for bending the rules— and a face pretty enough to get away with it—and Detective Rollins was the perfect go-to girl for shady dealings.

Print searches didn't exactly constitute shady dealings, but the method with which these were obtained might.

Upon arrival at work that morning, Olivia had discovered a wad of poster-sized paper crammed into her purse. Apparently Noah didn't trust her to make good on the promise to show his artwork around the squad room. When she tossed it onto her desk, its folds accordioned open to reveal the whimsical scene he'd captured during the previous day's lunch outing—Fin riding horseback, Olivia and her fellow lady pirates, Amanda and Amelia, sailing in his wake; Jesse, Frannie, and Noah had joined the aquatic fun with a little deep sea diving; meanwhile, Carisi appeared to be surfing a shark. And over in the corner, somehow significant in their incongruity, were the handprints: Noah's, hers, and Amelia's.

She had carefully clipped out the latter with a pair of scissors, unsure as to why she was doing so. Not until she saw Amanda's blonde ponytail bobbing past her office window did she even decide to send the sample to the lab. It was slightly unethical, from a legal and a maternal standpoint (she regretted defacing her son's art), but there wasn't a cop in the entire Tri-State area who hadn't done a background check for personal reasons at some point in their career. Perhaps she would've had qualms with it in the past, but now she'd been burned too many times to trust just anyone who—quite literally—walked in off the streets. She needed to be sure Amelia was who she claimed to be.

According to her prints, she was in fact Amelia Rose Cole, aka Millie Cole, who had a case of sticky fingers around art supplies and an adolescent curiosity about cigarettes.

"One and the same," Olivia said, studying the mugshot in which Amelia, approximately fifteen years of age and still wearing her long, sandy hair in barrettes, beamed like she was posing for a yearbook photo. Olivia almost laughed outright. Yeah, that was Millie.

"She a suspect?"

"No. I bumped into her yesterday at this diner Noah and I like to go to."

"And what? She got frisky with the fry cook?"

"Nothing like that." Olivia shook her head and handed the folder back over. She tucked her glasses into the slope of her blouse, trying to stall. But she knew Amanda wouldn't let up, even without a glimpse at the detective's inquisitive face. Rollins never let up. "Something was just... off. I must've been in that diner fifty times in the past year, and I've never seen her once."

"Could be coincidence," Amanda ventured. "Or maybe you didn't recognize her? It's been a while, and you two met under pretty extreme circumstances."

"She approached me first. Sort of overly familiar, too." Olivia ticked off each offense on her fingers as she named it. "And very flighty."

"Drugs?"

"God, I hope not. She's got a three-month-old baby."

"Are you shitting me? She's twelve."

Rubbing the back of her neck, Olivia exhaled in a short, derisive puff. "Not anymore. Now she's shacked up with some guy named Carl or Cal, or whatever. He's a photographer in Chelsea."

"Oh, Lord."

"The way she tells it, he's Mr. Wonderful."

"You think he's trouble?"

"Honestly?" Olivia gave a faint shrug. Rather than justifying her suspicions, hearing them out loud made her even more doubtful of their validity. Maybe she hadn't completely shaken the paranoia left over from last year's misguided exercise in trust, via Sheila Porter. "No idea. She claimed things are great. And she really is sweet."

"But?"

"But I got the feeling she was lying to me. About what, I don't know. Could be nothing."

Amanda patted the folder against her leg a few times, then pointed it at Olivia's midsection. "Or it could be something. I'd go with your gut. It's usually right."

"Usually, huh?"

Cheek dimpling prettily, Amanda smiled her way right out of the baited remark. "Want me to check into it some more for you? I've got a friend over in Family Court. Bet I could get a look at that sealed record."

Olivia worried the inside of her cheek. She didn't know which was worse—one of her detectives offering to circumvent procedure for her, or that she was actually considering allowing it to happen. "I'll pretend you didn't just ask me that," she replied, hints of irony in her tone.  _Says the one going around collecting fingerprints willy-nilly._

"It's this damn Mangler case," she continued, hitching a thumb in the direction of the squad room now haunted by her array of so-called lookalikes. "It's got me on edge. Thinking everyone's guilty of something. I'm gonna go grab some lunch, see if that clears my head."

"Good plan. I'll hold down the fort."

"Hey, Rollins," Olivia said as she jabbed the elevator call button. The doors popped open on the first try. She stepped inside the empty lift and turned to flash a grateful smile at the waiting detective. "Thanks."

"Sure thing, Liv. And, hey, if the Amelia thing is really bothering you, maybe you should follow up with her? Couldn't hurt."

"Yeah, I might do that."

To her distorted reflection in the stainless steel doors of the descending elevator, she added, "I just might."

 

* * *

 

Fifteen minutes later, she stood outside another closed door—the one to Amelia Cole's apartment. It was only a ten minute cab ride from the precinct, but she had almost turned back halfway there. After digging through her bag several times and performing a self pat down worthy of Central Booking, she discovered her cellphone was missing. (On the plus side, she found enough loose change for cab fare.) When the initial panic wore off, she remembered Noah playing with the phone at breakfast, neglecting his Cap'n Crunch in favor of the Dinotrux app. Ten to one he still had it, probably squirreled away in his backpack, the preferred catchall of choice for the school age set. Somebody would be losing video game privileges and getting a serious lecture about returning Mommy's belongings tonight.

In the end she decided that tracking down her phone could wait until she got back from lunch. Showing up on someone's doorstep unannounced might not be proper etiquette, but countless hours spent canvassing neighborhoods had taught her the best place to catch a person off guard was at home. She had turned up everything from drug paraphernalia to fresh bruises to a putrefied corpse in a bathtub, all thanks to the simple element of surprise. Not that she expected to find any rotting bodies hogging the facilities in Amelia's apartment.

The same couldn't be said for the adjacent residence. Its occupant—a robust older woman who looked like Kathy Bates in  _Misery_ —had met Olivia coming up the front steps, let her into the building, then walked up to the third floor practically shoulder to shoulder with her in what had to be the most awkward silence of Olivia's life. Now she was peeking out through her partially cracked door, its squeaky haunted house hinges alerting Olivia to the presence behind her.

"Old friend," she said, turning just enough to flash her badge and a tight smile.

The door creaked shut.

"Ok, then."

It took a few knocks, but soon Olivia heard the sound of feet padding to and fro, followed by an abrupt pause as their owner presumably checked the peephole. She ducked her head into view and gave a small wave. After several silent beats, the door flew open and Amelia launched herself at Olivia, squealing, "You came!"

"Oof," Olivia said.

And when she regained her balance and breath enough to reciprocate the hug, she added, "I promised I would, remember?"

"Of course! I just didn't expect you so soon. Come on." Grabbing Olivia's hand, Amelia lead her inside the apartment with a lively tug. "Get that gorgeous behind in here."

The apartment was far more spacious than Olivia had expected, almost cavernous compared with her own. As her eyes adjusted to the dim lighting within, she realized the illusion was created by high ceilings and a single living space separated only by the loft bedroom, accessible via ladder, and the cubbyhole of a bathroom underneath. Nevertheless, an impressive chunk of square footage for a recent high school grad with an infant. Mr. Cole must have had the foresight to leave his daughter with a considerable inheritance. Not surprising, given his wife's untimely death at the age of thirty-nine.

"Sorry to just show up," Olivia said, taking in small details one at a time so it wouldn't look like she was casing the joint. In lieu of curtains, large tapestries with mandala designs blocked out the natural lighting from a set of picture windows in the opposite wall. White twinkle lights were strung overhead in clothesline fashion, casting a soft, dreamy glow about the room. It was like being inside a kaleidoscope. "I would've called first, but I misplaced my phone. Or should I say, my son misplaced it for me."

"Ruh-roh. Why didn't you bring him along? I told you, you're both welcome whenever."

"He's at school. And technically I'm supposed to be at lunch, so I can't stay long." Olivia barely got the words out before Amelia started removing her coat. Giving in to the girl's eagerness, she helped shrug the dark blue pea coat from her shoulders. It went onto a do-it-yourself hall tree made from industrial pipes and reclaimed wood, hand-painted with a bright celestial theme.

"Oh my God, I'm such a doofus. I work freelance, usually from home. Sometimes I forget people have real time clocks and stuff to follow." Amelia's voice trailed off for a moment as her gaze did the same, coming to rest on the badge clipped to Olivia's waistband and the bulge further back on her hip.

_Look away, Amelia._

And that dry, terrible  _click_.

"Time clocks and stuff," Olivia said, adjusting her blazer to better conceal the service weapon. Once again she began to regret her decision to come here.

If Amelia noticed, it didn't show. She looped her arm through Olivia's, and said, "Well, then I better give you the grand tour."

The grand tour consisted of being guided into the center of the room, designated by a round rug whose busy colors resembled a hypnotist wheel, and completing a three-sixty turn while Amelia pointed at various objects like a roaming compass needle.

"Kitchen and dining room," she said, gesturing to an alcove with a makeshift doorway of beaded curtains. The strands, so heavy they drooped, were drawn back to reveal the hutch that served as pantry, cupboard, and counter space. Several electronic devices, including a fancy toaster oven with hot plates on top and a stout little coffeemaker, were lined up in its open deck, power cords snaking every which way like Medusa hair. A mini fridge, no taller than a child, stood at its side. The small table and chair set a few feet away might have once belonged in an ice cream parlor.

"Mud room." (Actually just the apartment door and the hall tree where Olivia's coat now resided.) Further along the exposed brick wall, faded and smooth with age, hung several framed black and white photos interspersed with canvas paintings of varying size. That would account for the fresh paint smell that permeated the air—the underlying astringent odor, a little less so. "Gallery," said Amelia.

"Over here we have the study." Flourishing grandly, she indicated a tent-like structure of knotted scarves that had been erected in the far corner. Inside the cozy nook, two knitted beanbag poufs flanked a squat little coffee table that held an old-fashioned desk lamp. Stacks of books littered every available flat surface.

Olivia's guess about the bathroom location had been correct. Which brought Amelia back to true north: "And the living room. Obvs," she said, thumping the arm of the plum-colored Victorian sofa in front of them.

It looked both out of place and somehow just right in the eclectic atmosphere where jewel tones, gold filigree, and all things shabby chic came together in a style which Olivia believed the favored term for was  _boho_. All in all, a cute, fanciful dwelling that suited its tenant. At eighteen, Olivia would have jumped at the chance for such a place. Or any place, really, provided it was far away from the dorms where her drunken mother often popped in "just to say hi."

"It's lovely, Ame- Millie," Olivia said, nodding approval. "You've got quite a flair for decorating."

"That's what they tell me. Let me show you the loft. You'll love it."

This time Olivia resisted when the girl tried to lead her towards the ladder. "Oh, honey, that's okay. You really don't have to—"

"I know, but I want you to see it. I've done some of my best work up there." Amelia laughed at the Freudian slip and joggled Olivia's arm lightly. "On the walls, not the bed. Please?"

Put Olivia Benson in the interrogation room with a hardened criminal, and she could stare him down for hours. But the minute her son looked up at her with puppy dog eyes or a pouty bottom lip, she folded like origami; he knew it, and apparently so did Amelia. Relenting, Olivia trailed over to the ladder, glad to see it was stationary and had thick rungs, almost the width of actual stairs. The last thing she needed right now was to fall on her fifty-year-old ass and have to explain to 1PP why she'd been in a past victim's home climbing ladders like a ten-year-old in a treehouse.

When they reached solid ground at the top, she gazed around in amazement. The bedroom itself was fairly spartan—just bed, dresser (some men's clothes folded neatly on top were the first sign of a boyfriend she'd spotted), and full-length mirror adorned in more twinkle lights—but the walls were buzzing with life. An enormous mural covered every last inch of brick and mortar, so colorful and surreal it was like stepping through the looking glass into Wonderland.

"Wow. Millie, this is—" Olivia did a double take. "Is that me?"

She pointed at the life-size rendering of a woman in saintly, flowing robes, whose concealed feet and elevated stance beside the dresser made it appear she hovered midair. Painted in intricate Art Nouveau style, she had dark Rapunzel-length hair crowned by a halo of stars. An enraptured boy-child, whom she gazed down upon benevolently, stood before her, his back to the viewer, eyes devoted only to her face. And, while Olivia was no egomaniac, she was quite certain that face belonged to her.

"Yep! Surprised?"

Surprised didn't even begin to cover it. Stunned and a bit disconcerted would be much more accurate. Throw in a side of unnerved, and you had yourself a triple whammy strong enough to render a decorated lieutenant who thought she had seen it all in the line of duty temporarily speechless.

"You could say that," she finally stammered, eyes never leaving the portrait. Mouth slightly ajar, she tried to take in each of the fine details—the Christlike pose of her doppelgänger, arms spread and palms out; a subtle twitch on the lips that would have been a smirk with one more stroke of the paintbrush; the meandering line of children that stretched into the distance, some encircled by her long, sinuous locks. Most of the little urchin faces were too muted to identify, but two young girls in the foreground were unmistakable: Amelia, as she had looked at the cusp of thirteen, and her older sister, Lauren. They were huddled together in the heavenly glow emanating from the being above.

"How did you— When did—" Olivia made a small, bewildered gesture between the painting and the painter, who looked ready to burst with excitement. "Why?"

"A crap ton of primer and acrylics. Last night. And why not? You're kind of a superhero, in case you didn't know. I wouldn't be here, if not for you. Guess I was feeling inspired after I saw you yesterday."

Civilians openly praised her heroism on a regular basis, but Olivia tried to take it with a grain of salt. They called her an idiot or a bitch or screamed at her to fuck off, sometimes all in one sentence, with the same frequency. After awhile you learned not to take any of it—good or bad—too personally. But this? This was a new one.

The religious symbolism made her especially uncomfortable. Though no art buff, growing up with an English professor for a mother had taught her an analytical skill or two. If the painting were a novel, she was pretty sure the main character would have a huge Messiah complex.

"You don't like it?" Amelia asked when the silence dragged on a little too long.

"No, I— it's incredible. I'm just not sure what to say. No one's ever memorialized me on their bedroom wall before." Olivia gathered her composure, not wanting to hurt the girl's feelings. Over the top or not, it was an impressive gesture. "I'm flattered. Truly," she said, placing a hand over her heart.

Once again, Amelia's face shone with happiness and she began to chatter at lightning speed about the creative process that went into each section of the mural. Glad to move on from Saint Benson, Olivia half-listened to the prattle as she inched along like a visitor in an art museum, making the appropriate vocalizations at the appropriate times.

"...because they're my guardian angels," Amelia was saying as they neared the bed. "They watch over me when I sleep."

In place of a headboard, three faces in cameo frames were depicted on the wall behind the bed. It took a moment for Olivia to recognize them as the deceased Cole parents, and daughter, Lauren. She'd only seen the adults briefly, and Janice Cole had no longer been alive at the time. But the delicate portraits, obviously captured by a loving hand, were breathtaking in their realism. Olivia had the urge to reach out and stroke the mother's ivory cheek.

"They're beautiful," she said reverently. "I'm sure your parents would be honored. And so proud of your amazing talent."

"You think?"

"Absolutely."

A dark cloud passed over Amelia's expression, her sea green eyes momentarily fathomless as ocean waters churning before a storm. Seconds later the capricious sun broke through, as it so often does, and she was all smiles again. Before Olivia could ask if everything was all right, Amelia had moved on to the last section of mural.

Much darker than the rest, it portrayed a shadowy woodland with strange creatures lurking at every turn, including the grim-faced oak tree that seemed to be Amelia's trademark. Its creepiness only increased with proportion, but it was the face beside it that made Olivia's breath catch in her throat.

There—half in shade, half in light, and grinning down at her with Joker-like insanity—was William Lewis. Larger than life in bold graffiti lines, he seemed poised to leap off the wall at any moment. The crescent scar he'd received when the bed railing kissed his eye socket was now the size of a sickle. He aimed a revolver directly at her head, its visible chambers empty. ( _Click._ )

 _I know where the bullet is_ , she thought.

Her dwindling migraine suddenly flared up with such intensity it dazzled the vision. She cringed, gaze tearing away from her would-be rapist's face. As she tried to refocus elsewhere, she noticed that the unusual animals populating the forest scene weren't animals at all. They were Lewis' tools of the trade—wire hangers coiled like vipers, ready to strike; vodka bottles with necks curved into scorpion tails; smoldering cigarettes with gaping maws lined in rows of razor sharp teeth; rope that grasped and choked like living vines.

Olivia's scalp began to prickle and burn, the skin on her wrists and chest to itch right down to the bone. It felt as if she were having an allergic reaction, but she recognized the symptoms from previous experience. She used to feel the same way whenever she passed a chain-smoker puffing away nervously on Lucky Strikes outside the courthouse, or when she crossed paths with a bum stumbling along the sidewalk, nursing Absolut from a brown paper sack. Sometimes she still awoke late at night, convinced her wrists and ankles were bound. Sometimes she still dragged herself out of bed to take a hot shower because her hair felt coarse and sticky with booze.

"You okay, Liv? You look a little pale."

"Yeah," Olivia said weakly, almost jumping out of her hypersensitive skin when a hand touched her shoulder. She turned her back deliberately to the nightmarish artwork and inhaled deep breaths, trying to calm her racing pulse. "I just haven't seen that face—"

_Since he blew it off in front of me._

"—in a really long time," she concluded.

"Oh, shit! Oh my God, I'm so sorry." Amelia clutched at both sides of her head, tufts of red hair sticking out wildly between her fingers, in a pantomime of distress. Under less triggering conditions, it might have been amusing. "Jesus, I didn't even think. My therapist told me painting what happened could be cathartic, so—"

"So you put your mother's killer and your sister's rapist on your wall to stare at every night before bed?" Olivia snapped, the pounding in her head blocking out all thought about the words leaving her mouth. "Why would you choose to glorify him like that, Amelia?"

When no response came, Olivia glanced up to see a crushed look on the girl's face. Her features, pretty in their uniqueness if not their form, crumpled in on themselves, and a flood of tears followed soon after.

"I don't know!" Amelia wailed, fretfully tugging at her hair. Several loose strands clung to her fingers as she turned to slap a hand against the wall. Hard. "I don't know why. I just wanted to get him out of my dreams. I thought if I could look at him  _here_  without being afraid, he'd leave me alone  _here_." This time she butted her palm against the side of her head—just as hard.

She repeated the action until Olivia grabbed her hand, lowering it gently and brushing the red tangles away. Olivia held it cupped between her larger, stronger hands like a baby bird that had fallen from the nest. She chaffed it lightly and murmured soothing sounds until the emotional meltdown—hers and Amelia's—had passed.

"I'm sorry, sweetheart," she said in a hushed voice, as if that might remove the sting of her previous words. She prided herself on being nonjudgmental of the victim, even when his or her behavior didn't make sense. Apparently that went right out the window when she was confronted with her own attacker. "I shouldn't have said that to you. No one has the right to tell you how to express your grief."

 _Least of all me_ , she added to herself. She'd only been a few years older than Amelia when she joined the force and finally had access to the records of her mother's rape. Hadn't she spent months tracking down every dead-end lead that came her way? How many times had she woken up surrounded by the half-assed reports for case #30289, black and white close-ups documenting each injury sustained by 'Benson, Serena,' and the wrong man's photo—faded in the spots where she had traced a finger, wondering...—usually on the pillow next to her head? If asked, she could still recite word for word the audio recording of her mother's statement, right down to every choked sob, every clearing of the throat by the bored-sounding police officer.

Some might even say painting a mural was a lot less crazy than building an entire career on your childhood trauma.

"You're not mad at me?" Amelia swiped at her nose with the sleeve of her oversized sweater. Once again she appeared to be dressed in the hand-me-downs of someone who had come of age circa 1996, when baggy overalls paired with neon cable knit and Converse was an acceptable fashion statement. Her small, childish question combined with the ill-fitting clothes made her seem painfully young and vulnerable.

"No, of course not." Olivia helped pat the girl's tear-stained cheeks dry. "It took me a long time to deal with what Lewis did to me. To us. I guess I'm still working through it in a lot of ways. I'm glad you found an outlet that works for you."

Heaving a sigh of relief, Amelia swiped imaginary sweat off her brow. "Phew. Okay, good. I really am sorry I upset you, though. Sometimes I don't think past my nose. C'mon, let's get you out of here. I'm so sorry, Liv."

"Stop apologizing," Olivia said gently, but followed Amelia downstairs without any objections. She didn't look back at the mural.

"Can I get you something to drink? Tea, coffee?" Amelia asked when they were on ground level. She hooked her thumbs around both overall straps and rocked back on her heels, fully recovered from the crying jag mere seconds ago.

Olivia was another story. Still a bit shaky, she glanced at her watch and said, "Actually, I probably can't stay that long. I will use your restroom, if that's okay?"

"Go for it."

Once inside, she leaned back against the bathrobes hanging from a hook on the closed door. She'd already peed at the precinct, but she wanted a moment alone to gather herself. And to snoop.

Rolling her neck a few times, she stepped over to the ancient console sink and splashed cold water on her face. She reached for a paper towel from the metal rack below the basin and noticed a brown leather pouch tucked behind various bottles of beauty products. Careful not to knock them over, she unzipped the weathered bag and inched it open, hoping to find nothing more incriminating than blue eyeshadow. Instead, she found a man's shaving kit, the old-fashioned kind with a horsehair brush and tin cup for the soap. Apparently the boyfriend was into vintage as well.

Closing the pouch back up, she went for the medicine cabinet next. The mirror squeaked in protest no matter how gingerly she eased it aside, but there was little chance of it being heard—Amelia's voice filtered in from the next room, harmonizing both parts of the duet "(I've Had) The Time of My Life." She had a pleasant tone, and Olivia caught herself humming the chorus as she poked through the typical home pharmacy fare: Pepto-Bismol, cough syrup, Ibuprofen, Band-Aids ( _Star Wars_  edition), rubbing alcohol, a couple prescription bottles. She peeked at the labels on the latter, half-expecting mood stabilizers, but finding nothing more than expired antibiotics and an allergy medication.

The worst offense in the entire cabinet was a roll of mint Rolaids with the silver wrapping hanging in a scraggly tendril at one end, exposing the next tablet to dust and bathroom grime. Those must belong to the boyfriend, too. It used to drive Olivia crazy when Brian did things like that.

She reached over and flushed the toilet just in case (Amelia was still having the time of her life and owing it all to you), started to close the cabinet, then thought better of it and popped two Ibuprofen first. She washed them down with a handful of water from the tap, and stood gazing at her reflection in the mirror for a moment, grasping either side of the sink.

What the hell was she doing? First she had run an innocent eighteen-year-old's prints, now she was reminiscing about ex-lovers and nosing around the kid's bathroom without probable cause. She had seen a retainer on the shelf beside the Pepto, for Christ's sake. If she was this intrusive of a relative stranger's privacy, Noah would be in for a real treat when he hit puberty.

 _You're losing it, Liv_ , she silently warned the woman in the mirror. Then, posture suddenly straightening, she whispered aloud what had been bugging her since yesterday at the diner, though she hadn't been able to put her finger on it then: "She called me Liv."

As far as she could remember, Amelia had never heard anyone refer to her by that nickname. Granted, it was a common shortened version of her actual name, but most civilians stuck to Lieutenant Benson or—if she wanted to put them at ease—Olivia. Only the people she worked with or dated called her Liv.

Filing it away in the back of her mind, where the ever growing list of Amelia's odd behavior had taken up residence, she smoothed her hair, righted her blazer, and exited the bathroom with renewed determination to figure out what was off about the girl.

A rich, intoxicating aroma of brewing coffee grounds had filled the apartment, overpowering the paint smell. Amelia was in the kitchen area, singing to a Folgers canister as she scooped another tablespoon into the coffee machine,

"You're the one thing I can't get enough of..."

She snapped the filter compartment shut, executed a graceful twirl in spite of the overalls and sneakers, and belted,

"So I'll tell you something, this could be love!"

Kid had a knack for performing, Olivia would give her that. She applauded lightly and received a small curtsy in return.

"How do you take your coffee?" Amelia asked brightly, cheeks flush from the impromptu musical number.

Olivia started to remind her that she couldn't stay, but that had mostly been an excuse to leave sooner, after the nasty little discovery upstairs. She got a loosely enforced hour for lunch (being lieutenant did have its perks), and it was a good thirty minutes until she needed to be back at the One Six. Sticking around for a cup of coffee was the least she could do after making the hostess cry. And if it gave her the chance to ply the girl for more information—well then, even better.

"Uh, sugar's good."

"I've got salted caramel creamer." Amelia retrieved a pint of Coffee-mate from the fridge, dangling it enticingly in the air by its red cap.

"Well..." Olivia's stomach growled. She thought about her incomplete breakfast and those damn donuts Carisi had waved in her face earlier.

Oh, what the hell.

"Maybe just a skosh," she said.

Whistling a tune Olivia didn't recognize this time, Amelia went to work collecting items from the hutch and placing them on a tray. She paused mid-trill, a bowl of sugar in her hand, and said, "Could you do me a favor and check on Tilly? She's right there."

Up to that point, Olivia had nearly forgotten about the baby. She'd spotted a few signs that an infant lived in the apartment—stuffed animals scattered on the couch like an oddball zoo, silicone paws for teething, balloon heads that rattled; a cotton candy pink blanket mixed in with the bedcovers; Johnson's shampoo in marigold yellow under the bathroom sink—but, from the moment she had arrived, her dizzying reception didn't leave much opportunity to ask after Matilda.

She went over to the apparatus that hung from the lower portion of ceiling beneath the loft. At first glance, she had assumed it was some kind of plant hanger, but upon further inspection she realized it was a crocheted baby hammock. The tiny fist jutting into the air from inside gave it away. Leaning down for a peek, she discovered Matilda wide awake and gazing contentedly up at the dreamcatcher mobile attached to the sling. It took her still-developing vision a moment to spot Olivia, who gave a soft gasp of delight at the living doll before her.

"Hi there, beauty," Olivia murmured, reaching in to stroke the baby's velvety rose-tinted cheek with the side of her finger. She got a happy gurgle in response, and broke into a wide smile of her own. The weight she'd been carrying on her shoulders since viewing Margo Tóth's body at the morgue that morning began to melt away.

Gently, she tickled the round little tummy inside its fuzzy unicorn print onesie. Noah had loved that as a baby and still shrieked with laughter whenever she made spider hands anywhere near his belly. Matilda showed her approval with more burbling and a few tiny kicks.

"You're a cheerful little one, aren't you?" Olivia said in the light, playful tone she reserved for children. "I barely even knew you were here."

"She never cries," Amelia said, still milling about in the kitchen. "Everyone says she's, like, the most chill baby, ever. I got lucky. You can hold her if you want."

Olivia did want. She hadn't held a baby since Ken Randall showed up at Fin's birthday party with son Jaden in tow. Though she wasn't one of those baby-crazy ladies who couldn't keep their hands off other people's kids, she did miss that warm, pleasant weight in her arms. Noah had needed so much physical contact when she first brought him home—to ensure healthy bonding, and then because of his constant hospital visits. On more than one occasion she had slept sitting up with him snuggled against her chest. Now it was all she could do to keep hold of his hand for five seconds when they walked down the block to his school. She encouraged his strength and independence wholeheartedly, but sometimes she just wanted to cuddle her baby boy.

"What do you say, Miss Tilly? May I hold you?" She lifted the little girl out of the sling, supporting her carefully against one shoulder. The smell of talcum powder and freshly bathed skin came with her, but it was the indescribable scent of pure innocence that made Olivia nuzzle into Matilda's soft hair and steal a whiff.

Delicious.

The admiration seemed to be mutual, because Matilda caught a fistful of Olivia's hair and promptly began mouthing it.

"Ucky," Olivia said, rescuing the now slobbery strands and replacing them with the pacifier that lay on top of a blanket inside the sling. With binky and blankie secured in place, she took the baby for a stroll around the room, rhythmically patting her bottom.

Matilda studied her with an alertness surprising in one so young, listening just as intently while Olivia narrated their circuitous journey. They came to a stop in front of the gallery wall, where Olivia began describing each painting and photograph as she pointed them out like a docent for her captive audience. Most were abstracts of the female anatomy—beseeching hands, unfettered breasts, a curvaceous torso—all initialed "M.C." in the corner, and all too voluptuous to be self-portraits. The photographer, however, had chosen Manhattan as his muse; each photo was a tribute in grayscale to various landmarks throughout the city, taken from unique and perilous angles.

"And who're these pretty girls?" she asked, coming to a lovely shot of Amelia and Matilda on a Central Park bench. "Is that Tilly and her mama?"

The next frame over held a picture of Carl (she recognized the wire-rimmed specs from the selfie Amelia had shown her at the diner), his face in profile, casting an elongated shadow by some moody trick of lighting.

"This must be daddy," she said, more to herself than the baby, as she brought her glasses down from the top of her head to the bridge of her nose.

Leaning forward slightly, she studied the young man's sharp nose, his somewhat delicate cheekbones, his messy '90s heartthrob hair. He looked like a kid who hadn't quite grown into his body and might never do so. For a second, she had a clear image of him tossing the long locks out of his eyes, but she blinked and it was gone.

"Isn't he dreamy?" a voice beside her asked, giving her a start. She hadn't even heard Amelia approach.

"He's got a good eye." Olivia stroked Matilda's back, but the baby was unfazed by her mother's stealth. She grasped onto Olivia's thumb with a tiny little hand, and held tight. "He around? I'd like to meet him."

"He's out on a shoot right now. Probably won't be back for a while. But I'll definitely introduce you sometime soon. He's gonna love you." Amelia scrunched down to make a silly face at her daughter. "Just like this li'l munchkin already does. Right, Tilly-willy? You love your Auntie Olivia, don'tcha?"

"Well, the feeling is mutual," Olivia said, dabbing a kiss to the baby's forehead. Matilda responded by spitting out her pacifier and depositing Olivia's thumb in its place. Close enough.

"Guess she wants something to drink, too. You guys sit and I'll grab the coffee."

When they were settled on the couch, Matilda cozy in the crook of Olivia's arm, Amelia returned with a collapsible TV tray loaded down by a buffet of sweeteners. Two dime store mugs with kitschy sayings— _Virginia is for Lovers_ , a red heart instead of the lowercase  _V_ ;  _Don't Mess with Texas_ , accompanied by the silhouette of a longhorn—sloshed their fragrant dark brew, but didn't overflow.

Amelia chose the Virginia mug and began doctoring its contents with several generous tablespoons of sugar and at least a half-cup of creamer. She stirred the brimming liquid with caution, sipping it down to a manageable level. "Hope it's hot enough for you," she said as Olivia sampled from the Texas mug, leaning away from the baby in case it spilled.

It was plenty hot. Olivia felt like she had scalded off a fairly vital layer of mucous membrane. It also tasted terrible. After years of drinking the swill that passed for coffee at the old precinct building, she'd developed a bit of a cast iron stomach. Then again, ten packets of Sweet'N Low could spruce up just about anything, no matter how weak or stale. She hoped the same could be said for the coffee-flavored brine Amelia had served.

"Ready for lunch, baby girl?" Amelia asked, clapping her outstretched hands at Matilda.

Reluctantly, Olivia passed the baby over to her mother, who plopped back down near the arm of the couch, unhooked one side of her overalls bib, and lifted the bottom of her sweater to reveal a small upturned breast. It took less than a second for Matilda to find the pouty pink nipple and begin to suck with soft, hungry grunts. Olivia realized she was staring in fascination, and busied herself with finding the exact sugar to beverage ratio to salvage her drink.

Breast-feeding mothers weren't a particular novelty in her world; she'd witnessed everything from a woman simultaneously nursing an infant and a crack pipe, to a forty-year-old man who groped young girls on the subway and asked for their "colostrum." But seeing the ritual performed with such natural ease by Amelia and her daughter struck Olivia as almost sacred—and something she would never get to experience.

Embarrassed by the twinge of envy she felt, she focused on alternating sips of coffee and dousing it in creamer. Finally she reached a tolerable medium, not great but not awful, and sat back against the couch, warming her hands on the mug. She must have concocted a truth serum of sorts, because a moment later she heard herself speaking without much forethought about what she intended to say:

"Millie, I just want you to know you can trust me. If there's anything that's bothering you, or that you need help with, you can tell me and we'll figure it out together, okay?"

"That's really sweet of you, Liv. And so good to hear. I don't have too many actual grownup friends I can count on. Kinda makes the whole motherhood thing a little scary sometimes."

Not exactly the response she'd been aiming for, but a step in the right direction. "I'm sure. Still scares me sometimes, and I'm..." Coffee mug poised at her lips, she smirked and finished, "A lot older than you."

"Pssh." Amelia reached over and swatted Olivia's knee lightly. "Whatever, you're a babe. And a total badass. I can't imagine you being afraid of anything."

"Oh, honey. The stuff I see every day—believe me, it's terrifying. Especially now that I've got a child of my own. When I think of all the things that could happen..."

Olivia glanced up to see Amelia listening attentively and stroking her daughter's head in slow circles. Static electricity from mother's sweater had turned baby's hair into a nimbus of wispy copper strands that ebbed and flowed with the motion of her palm. Matilda's eyes rolled behind heavy lids so pale and delicate a network of pink veins were clearly visible beneath the skin. Frothy white spittle had collected in the corners of her eager mouth.

Once again, Olivia felt an odd surge of emotion at the sight of such vulnerability. This time it was more physiological and harder to pinpoint, but it made her neck and cheeks flush with heat. She set her coffee on the TV tray long enough to remove her blazer and drape it over the back of the couch. "Anyway, I try not to obsess over it. Otherwise I'd go crazy."

"I bet. I couldn't do what you do. Way too many psychos out there."

 _If you only knew the half of it_ , said her mind. "So, tell me some more about Carl," said her mouth.

Subtle, Lieutenant. Real subtle.

Thankfully, Amelia needed little prompting when it came to discussing her boyfriend. If she noticed the clumsy segue, it didn't show. "What do you wanna know?"

"Where's he from?"

"Here. Well, he lived in the Bronx first. He had to move around a lot as a kid. Lived out of state for a while. But he came back to the city a few years ago."

"That must've been tough. Never getting to stay in one place, one school."

"Yeah, he had a hard time making friends because of it. Spent a lot of time alone. I think that's why he became a photographer. Just him and his camera, you know?"

Olivia nodded and took a drink of coffee, her gaze sliding over to the photos across the room. The mug, still warm enough she had to hold it by the handle, sent up a vapor that fogged her lenses. She hooked her glasses off with one finger and left them straddling her knee. "What about his parents? They didn't pay attention to him?"

"His dad was a jerk, never really in the picture. No pun intended. And his mom was a hot mess. Drugs, alcohol, the whole nine. She abandoned him, and he got bounced around different homes until he was old enough to be on his own."

Not a good sign. That type of childhood was the perfect storm for generating a cyclone of deviant behavior in adulthood. Reminding herself that the same could be said of her own tumultuous upbringing, Olivia asked, "He was in the system? He aged out about, what, two years ago, then?"

"The system? Oh, you mean foster care?" Amelia nodded at her lap, using the edge of her sweater to wipe a stream of milky drool from Matilda's chin. "Um, yeah, he's twenty now, so about two years ago."

Olivia began to wish she hadn't left her purse on the hall tree with her coat. The notepad inside would have been helpful for jotting down these details for later verification. (A preliminary search of the name "Silvanis, Carl" hadn't turned up anything in the NYPD database, but there were other methods to be employed.) Normally she would just rely on memory, which seldom failed her, but the migraine had taken a toll—her head was feeling fuzzy.

"And that's when you two met?" she asked, inhaling deeply to restore some clarity to her thoughts.

"No, we met a year ago. Around the time my dad died."

"Oh, that's right, you mentioned that the other day. Yesterday." Olivia blinked hard several times and took a long pull at her coffee, hoping the caffeine would snap her out of the haze that was creeping in. "You met outside of school?"

Completely absorbed in studying the ruddy nipple Matilda had relinquished, Amelia seemed to have entered a world of her own as well. She swirled her thumb idly over the areola, collecting moisture and wiping it on her pant leg, then grazed at the tip with her sleeve. Each movement was slow and deliberate, as if performed under water.

"Uh-huh. Through a mutual friend, sort of," she said in a far away tone. Her gaze traveled up to Olivia's and she smiled softly as she covered herself.

Warmth flooded Olivia's cheeks again, unpleasant and oppressive as a hot flash. After her annual Pap smear a few months back, she'd Googled perimenopause and, much to her dismay, discovered that her gynecologist wasn't completely off base in his assessment of her changing cycle. Since then she had become well-acquainted with the symptoms, especially the unpredictable rushes of heat that tempted her to strip down to bra and panties at the most inopportune moments.

This was not that.

A distant voice was saying, "He messaged me on Facebook, and it took off from there."

The mug began to feel unnaturally heavy in her hands, as if she had somehow mistakenly picked up a bowling ball—a whopping sixteen-pounder, at that. She squinted down at it, surprised to find it nearly drained dry.

_Click._

"At first I couldn't believe it when he told me how you screwed him over. But considering how royally you fucked up my life, I guess it's no big shock."

It took all of Olivia's effort just to lift her head and look at Amelia. Or was it Matilda? Why couldn't she remember? She tried to ask but managed only a raspy, "What?"

"You still don't get it, do you? But why would you? Saint Olivia, patron saint of damaged children, can do no wrong."

An intense bout of nausea gripped her when she attempted to sit forward. The once stationary room had begun to spin—imperceptibly at first, then increasing speed until it reached full tilt— on a creaky, teetering axis, like the Super Round Up she had loved to ride at Coney Island as a teenager. And just like the summer she'd ridden it nine times in a row (there had been a boy and a bet involved), she was about to puke.

"Oh my God, your face when you saw my mural! Classic."

A laugh that sounded hollow, as if it came from the bottom of a well, followed the words. She couldn't make sense of them, nor could she focus on the person who'd spoken. The girl.

He'd kidnapped the girl. Killed the mother, raped the sister. He was going to do her while Olivia watched, or do you while she watches, up to you I'm fine either—

_Look away,_

"Amelia, what did you do?" Olivia said, grasping for something, anything: her thoughts . . . her gun . . . her fading consciousness . . .

"My name is Millie now, you stupid cunt. And I wouldn't do that if I were you."

Weight shifted on the couch cushions. Amelia came into view, standing over Olivia with a baby against her chest, gently patting its back to coax a burp. ( _Matilda. Belly full of milk. Something I can never give._ )

"Unless you plan on shooting an unarmed mother holding her sweet little girl," Amelia continued, watching in amusement as Olivia's hand fumbled at her holster.

"If I have to."

But Olivia knew it was too late. Even if she were willing to chance a shoot that high-risk—and they both knew she never would—she was too weak to raise her gun, let alone pull the trigger. She could barely even hold her eyes open.

"There's that Lieutenant Benson spunk," Amelia said, rescuing the coffee mug just as it toppled from somewhere in the vicinity of Olivia's lap. "'Fraid it's not gonna get you out of this one, though."

"Please. Don't." Olivia wasn't sure if she'd actually produced the words or merely heard them in her head. She wanted to plead with the girl. To call her a monstrous bitch. To tell her that Noah needed his mother as much as Matilda did. All she managed was a slurred, "My son."

"He'll be fine. We'll take good care of him. At least he'll have a daddy now. The best daddy ever, right, Tills?" Amelia gave her daughter a delicate Eskimo kiss, then gently lifted the baby's wrist, waving her tiny hand back and forth. "Say, 'Night-night, Auntie Liv. Night-night.'"

As Olivia lost the fight with whatever drug she had ingested, her final thoughts were of Noah and his bedtime ritual. Always one more story, one more goodnight hug and kiss. Always the door open a crack, his favorite Batman signal nightlight glowing big and bright on the bedroom ceiling.

For her beautiful boy, all was comfort, love, and light.

For Olivia, all was darkness.


	4. Double Double

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author's Note: I was planning to keep updates on a weekly schedule, but I'm not that strong. So, here's chapter 4 a few days early. Thank you to the lovely reviewers, you guys keep me motivated. Hope you like this chapter. :) TRIGGER WARNING: Mentions of cutting/self-harm ahead.

 

* * *

"All my friends are heathens, take it slow  
Wait for them to ask you who you know  
Please don't make any sudden moves  
You don't know the half of the abuse"

\- TWENTY ONE PILOTS

* * *

**CHAPTER 4:**  Double Double

"Stop it."

And then, "I'm serious. Cut it out."

And then, "You son of a bitch."

The lone donut continued to stare Amanda Rollins in the face despite her warnings. She could swear it followed her every movement from inside its Krispy Kreme box on Carisi's desk, like the eyes of the Mona Lisa trapped in her eternal frame. She had half a notion to liberate her Glock 19 from the locked desk drawer and blow that smug chocolate icing to smithereens.

Okay, so maybe she was a little bit hangry.

With Fin and Carisi off schmoozing Jersey PD, and the lieutenant taking an eighteen hour coffee break, there hadn't been much opportunity for lunch. Since giving birth to Jesse, the days of scarfing down her weight in pastries—or anything else, for that matter—were over. Besides, she wanted more sustenance than a gob of creme filling could provide. She did the only logical thing and made a beeline for the vending machine around the corner.

Armed with a bag of Sun Chips, a cellophane packet of peanut butter crackers, twelve ounces of sweet tea, and some Skittles for dessert, she tried Benson's cell again as she headed back to the squad room. There wasn't much to report; Margo Tóth's financials showed no unusual activity or overlap with the other victims, and her phone LUDs were just as unhelpful. But the lieutenant was especially hands-on about this case, wanting any and all updates as they came across the detectives' desks, and Amanda couldn't blame her. This Mangler prick's demented little game had gone on long enough. It was time for the NYPD to catch the bastard and have some fun of their own.

After the fourth ring, Amanda prepared to hang up before she got kicked over to voicemail. (Since when did Benson stop answering her phone?) Her finger was on the button when she heard a familiar song from her childhood filtering down the hall. In an instant, she was Mandy again, thirteen years old, sprawled on the couch in her "Achy Breaky Heart" t-shirt, Kimmie's head in her lap while the TV blared Nick at Nite reruns and they sang along at the top of their lungs:

"Here's the story of a lovely lady..."

This version didn't contain lyrics and sounded much more synthesized than she remembered. When she swiveled around to find the source, she spotted Lucy Huston getting off the elevator with her young charge, Noah Benson. The little boy darted ahead when he saw Amanda, nanny close at his heels. She had a ringing iPhone held aloft in one hand, a  _Jurassic World_  backpack clutched in the other, and the harried look of someone who might very well be trying to outrun a T-Rex.

"Auntie Amanda!" Noah cried, launching at her midsection with his arms wide open. There was an awful crunch that must have been the Sun Chips, but with a greeting like that, she couldn't mourn them for too long.

"Hey, champ," Amanda said, bending forward to return the hug with her free arm. "What're you doing here, playing hooky?"

"Nope. School's over at one."

"Oh, gotcha. I guess that means they brought you in 'cause you robbed a bank. I better cuff ya."

Noah tossed his head back and giggled, his chin pressed into her belly. He'd grown quite a bit since his last playdate with Jesse. Lost a few more teeth, too. "Did not!" he said, showing off a set of dimples to die for.

Olivia was going to have her hands full with this one in about six more years.

"Maybe not a bank, but he did burgle his mom's purse this morning," said Lucy, still a little breathless from jogging down the hallway in her suede ankle boots. She displayed the iPhone that had stopped ringing when Amanda ended the call to Benson. "I heard it going off in his backpack when I picked him up from kindergarten. Figured Liv was probably missing it."

Making a mental note to ask why on earth the lieutenant had chosen  _The Brady Bunch_ theme song as her Det. Rollins ringtone, Amanda ushered the nanny and little boy over to her desk, unloading her burden of snacks. "Yeah, I'm sure she is," she said, tucking her own phone into the back pocket of her slacks. "Thanks for bringing it by."

"Is she here?" Noah asked, craning his neck to see inside his mother's closed office.

"Sorry, kiddo, she's out right now. But she should be back real soon if you want to stick around a few minutes." Amanda glanced towards the media room to make sure nothing too graphic had been left in plain sight. Fortunately, a considerate soul had turned the bulletin board to face the wall, shielding any visiting civilian's eyes from the crime scene photos pinned into its pocked cork surface.

"Can we, Lucy, please?" Noah begged, hands clasped together under his chin for effect. "I wanna tell Mommy I'm sorry I forgot to give her phone back. Pleeease."

Amanda mouthed an apology to Lucy, who cast a piteous look in her direction. Then, when the nanny was busy assenting to Noah's request, Amanda slipped him the bag of Skittles and a wink. What were aunties for, if not spoiling cute little boys rotten?

Slinking away with a devious grin, his contraband under wing, he inserted himself in Amanda's chair and surreptitiously began to whittle the bag open with his available teeth. She helped him keep up the ruse, leaning against the desk to block him from the other woman's view.

"Full of piss and vinegar, that one," Amanda said knowingly, voice low enough for only the nanny to hear.

"You have no idea," Lucy said with a light sigh of laughter. "How's yours? Nice and calm, I hope? Please, detective, let me live vicariously through you."

Amanda chuckled. "She has her moments. But she's great. We're working on her ABCs, so I hear that song about fifty thousand times a day. But I haven't completely lost my sanity. Yet."

The women went on trading good-natured barbs about the joys of child-rearing, and stories of developmental milestones, for several more minutes, until Noah chimed in with a question:

"Auntie Amanda, what's guess-o?"

Glancing down at the word Noah was pointing to with a Skittles-stained finger, Amanda said, "I think that's pronounced 'jess-o', hon."

"Is that like Jell-O?"

"Not quite. It's a primer." Noting the boy's confusion, she turned for a closer look at the paper now splotched with a tie dye pattern of runny orange, purple, and green fingerprints. He had uncovered Amelia Cole's rap sheet from the mound of reports on which she'd dropped the folder—and immediately forgotten it—after showing it to Benson an hour ago.

"You cover stuff with it before you paint," she explained, snatching up the sheet and scanning it quickly. Suspect was caught stealing from her high school art closet; pilfered items included brushes, palette knives, paint thinner, and a gallon jug of gesso. "It makes the paint go on better."

"Oh, like the clear polish they put on Mommy's fingers at the nail place," Noah said wetly, a glob of partially chewed candy visible on his multicolored tongue. So much for subtlety.

"Uh-huh." Amanda was barely listening, her mind racing at breakneck speed while logic and the laws of probability scrambled to keep up. "Kinda like that."

And kinda like the exact substance the ME had scraped from Margo Tóth's thigh during yesterday's autopsy.

It was a leap, and probably a huge one, but Amanda did have a weakness for playing the odds. Tamping down a momentary rush of euphoria at the thought, she held the paper up to Noah, pinched at both corners so it didn't quaver in her excitedly trembling hands. She tapped the mugshot with her index finger. "You know this girl?"

"Yep, that's Amelia Bedelia. She's Mommy's friend from a long time ago. I drew her picture at the diner."

"You met her yesterday?" Amanda asked, trying to reconstruct the details Olivia had mentioned about her encounter with the girl. An out of the blue encounter five years in the making. "What kind of stuff did she say?"

"Umm, she told Mommy to come to her house so her friend could take our picture." Noah sucked thoughtfully on his sticky, flavorful fingers, then leaned in to whisper, "And she said a bad word. The one for poo."

Amanda suppressed a smile, nodding gravely instead. "Anything else?"

"She said I could play with her baby, but I'm too old for babies, yuck! And she gave Mommy a card thing. The kind Mommy gives hurt people."

"A business card?"

Noah shrugged and plunked the last few Skittles into his mouth. He studied Amelia's photo for a moment, rolling the candies around with his tongue. "Her hair's different from that. It's red like Ariel. Did she do something bad?"

"I hope not, darlin'."

Slipping the paper back into its folder, Amanda tucked it under her arm and grabbed her keys from the desktop. "You know what, y'all? I gotta check on something real quick. I shouldn't be gone more'n a minute," she said, spinning Noah's chair in the opposite direction while she collected her gun and badge from the drawer behind him.

When both were secured in place, she slipped on her leather jacket, cramming Benson's cellphone into one pocket, her sweet tea in the other. She turned Noah back around and instructed, "Heads-up," tossing the packet of peanut butter crackers into his lap.

To Lucy—who probably wanted to strangle her, but tough shit—she said, "Do me a favor and don't leave here until Liv gets back?"

"Is everything okay?" the nanny asked, sounding mildly alarmed.

"Probably. I just wanna make sure. If she shows up, tell her I need to speak with her right away. She can use the landline." Amanda scooped up the bag of Sun Chips and pointed at the interview room with the same hand. "Coloring books and toys through there. If the unis give you trouble, tell them Rollins will get them demoted to mall security."

She headed for the exit, thought better of it, trotted back to swipe the Krispy Kreme box with its lone occupant off Carisi's desk. "You're getting a badge of your own if this pans out," she said to Noah, who already smelled like peanut butter when she paused to kiss him on top of the head.

"Yahf!" he replied through a spray of cracker crumbs.

"Stay here," she called over her shoulder as she bustled down the hallway towards the elevators. Clamping the chip bag between her lips and balancing the pastry box on her palm like a cocktail waitress, she slapped the call button with her free hand.

When the elevator door popped open, she practically barreled into the delivery guy who was coming out, hat brim low, pizza box high. They exchanged mumbled apologies, and he wandered off to some unknown destination where lucky folks got to sit down and eat real food.

On descent, she peeled the Sun Chips open with her teeth and crunched loudly at the first bite.

"Yeehaw."

 

* * *

 

By the time she found a spot in the parking garage adjacent to Family Court, the chip bag was crumpled on the footwell of her car, an essence of French onion still detectable in the air (and on her breath), and the Brisk bottle was half empty in the cup holder beside her.

She unearthed a piece of Juicy Fruit from the black abyss known as the center console, tore off its dingy silver wrapper, and folded the gum into her mouth. A tad stiff, but the flavor wasn't bad.

She flipped the visor down and scrubbed some volume into her pale bangs. After briefly scrutinizing the results, she freed her long hair from its ponytail loop and fanned it around her shoulders. Better.

By a pure stroke of luck, she had worn her red plaid shirt today. She didn't buy into the stereotype about lesbians and flannel, but if it worked in her favor for this, she wouldn't complain. Besides, it wasn't her only ammunition—she wrapped the leftover donut in a couple of wax paper inserts from inside the Krispy Kreme box, which she left open and empty on the passenger seat.

Five minutes later she poked her head into the court clerk's office, glad to find it empty except for the person she was there to see.

Months earlier, during a trip to the dog park with Frannie and Jesse, her daughter had become smitten with an energetic Goldendoodle named Hamilton. After about ten minutes of making small talk while Hamilton romped in circles around the little girl, it became pretty obvious his owner was smitten with Amanda. That the owner also happened to be a woman didn't really matter. Since transferring to Manhattan SVU, Amanda had gotten hit on by just about every gender under the sun. Back home she'd mostly had to limit her eye-batting Georgia peach act to members of the cis male persuasion, but in the Big Apple she got to be an equal opportunity flirt.

During that first conversation, she'd discovered the dog owner's name and occupation: Daphne Tyler, deputy chief clerk for New York City Family Court. Daphne didn't seem to mind that Amanda was "quote unquote straight" (the clerk's exact words); nor did Amanda mind that whenever they were together, Daphne practically licked her chops like a carnivore eyeing a fat juicy steak (Amanda was the steak). They had continued to meet at the dog park for coffee, chatter, and canine antics about once a week since then.

 _And that, ladies and gentlemen, is how I ended up married to a lesbian_ , Amanda thought as she rapped lightly on the open office door.

"Be right with you," Daphne said, eyes on the computer monitor in front of her. She clacked away at the keyboard with adept fingers until her gaze flickered towards the doorway and its occupant. "Why, if it isn't the lovely Detective Rollins! To what do I owe this honor?"

"Honor? My, my," Amanda said in her thickest Southern drawl, an "I do declare" strongly implied, though unspoken. Somewhere in Atlanta, Margaret Mitchell rolled over in her grave.

"Well, I never get to see you outside of doggy playtime. I was beginning to think you only liked me for the size of my... pooch." Daphne sauntered around to lean a hip on the curved edge of the reception desk.

Five-feet-two at most, maybe a buck even soaking wet, she didn't exactly have the slinky supermodel frame she projected, but the stilettos and sleek tailored pants certainly aided in the illusion. Her dark, wavy locks were caught up in a loose chignon at the side of her head, giving her a classy, feminine quality that the ball cap she wore to the park didn't quite convey. With her hair pulled back, her eyes were an even more vivid shade of blue, practically cerulean. A wry smile seemed to linger perpetually about her lips, punctuated in deep crimson red.

If Amanda ever did start batting for the other team, Daphne would be her first choice of pitcher.

Okay, maybe her second.

"Hammy is pretty cute," Amanda said, propping her elbow on the section of desktop that was elevated for attorneys and other muckety-mucks who were too important to bend down to write their signature. She angled her body just so, hip jutting slightly, legs crossed at the ankle. "But I was in the neighborhood. Thought I'd stop in and say hey." In her most honeyed tone, she added, "Bring you somethin' sweet."

Daphne's gaze traveled from the floor, all the way up, appreciating every dip and curve along the way. She breathed something that sounded like "hot damn," toying with the unbuttoned collar of her white silk blouse. "First of all, are you trying to get me fired? And second of all, let me just shut the door and close the blinds."

Amanda laughed and brought the donut out from behind her back. She offered it up on her palm with an impish grin.

"Anyone ever tell you you're a cock tease?" Daphne asked, thrusting out a pouty lip at the donut directly in her sight line.

"It's come up."

"Yes. Yes, I'm sure it has." Daphne heaved a sigh, grabbed the pastry, and took a voracious bite from the unwrapped end. "So, why are you really here? Besides to get your jollies torturing horny lesbians, I mean."

"I kinda need a favor," Amanda said, toning down the coquettish routine—for the most part. An imploring little tilt of the head never hurt anyone. "A big one."

"Hm. Go on."

"See, there's this sealed juvie record I need a peek at. I know technically I need a court order, but you know how long those can take..."

"You really are trying to get me fired."

"I wouldn't ask if it wasn't urgent. Like, life or death." Amanda Rollins was on a roll; she had a natural-born inclination to embellish, handed down by generations of Southern belles on her mother's side. Normally she avoided falling into the old habit, which her mother and sister relied so heavily upon. But she could sense the clerk just needed a little push.

"There's this teenage pross we busted. Turns out she's a trafficking vic. We're trying to get her to roll on the bastard who turned her out, but she's scared. Got into some trouble a while back. The pimp's blackmailing her with it. If I knew what the charges were, I might be able to get through to her better."

Daphne's sculpted sable brows knitted together in deep concern. "Jesus."

"Yeah."

"No, I mean thank Jesus you're a detective and not a professional bullshitter. 'Cause, honey, that was lame." Daphne polished off the last bite of donut and dabbed primly at the corners of her mouth. "You are cute when you speak cop, though."

_Shit._

"What gave it away?"

"Well, for starters, you jiggle around like you've got ants in your pants when you lie."

"I do no—" Amanda froze with her leg mid-bounce, jaw snapping shut like it was controlled by the same internal mechanism.

_Double shit._

She put her hands up in surrender. Time for some damage control. "All right, you caught me. Truth is, I've got a hunch."

"A hunch? As in Quasimodo? Because I've seen your backside, and it certainly doesn't belong locked away in a bell tower."

"Funny. But no. It's about this serial case we're working on—"

"The Manhattan Mangler?" Daphne asked in a hushed tone, though they were in no danger of being heard above the din from the court's main lobby.

"That's it. We got squat on the guy—DNA, fingerprints, not even a stray to determine hair color. He's Houdini." Amanda straightened to her full height, forgetting to play coy in her excitement over what she had found. She spoke rapidly, using animated gestures. "Thing is, I think I might've finally gotten a lead. Or at least a connection to someone who may know something."

Worried she had blown it again—this time with vague details instead of specifics—she cast a wary look at the shrewd clerk. But apparently the truth had been the right tack to begin with; Daphne's already fair complexion had blanched at least a full shade whiter, making her wide eyes appear too large for her face.

"Holy shit, why didn't you say so? I've been losing sleep for weeks over that asshole. I haven't left the house without Mace since he raped that court reporter in the parking garage." Daphne shuddered. "I'd seen her around here a few times."

Amanda considered mentioning that a handgun would be far more effective than pepper spray, then decided to hold her tongue. "I wouldn't worry very much. You're not his type," she offered.

"Too gay?"

"Too petite. He likes 'em tall with brown eyes, not blue."

"So you  _have_  been checking me out, huh, detective?" Color restored to her wan cheeks, Daphne executed a seductive turn, winked over her shoulder, and crooked a finger for Amanda to follow. "What's the name and date on the record?"

"Amelia Cole. June, 2016."

For several moments there was a flurry of activity in the cramped archive room as drawers were opened and closed, paper cuts were incurred (and cursed at), and a patina of two-year-old file cabinet dust troubled the air and the sinuses.

Finally, Daphne extracted a slim brown folder from among the hundreds of other slim brown folders. "You owe me big time," she said, then muffled three convulsive sneezes in the crook of her elbow. Placing the folder on top of the open drawer, she neatened her chic little blazer and strode towards the outer office. "This weekend. Sushi,  _My Fair Lady_  orchestra seats. We'll call it even."

"Yes, ma'am," Amanda said obligingly. Hell, if this helped crack the case, she might even put out. Probably best to keep that one to herself, though. Instead, she called out, "Thank you, Daphne."

When no response came, she took the hint—shut up and get on with it already!—and greedily pried into the Cole girl's not-so-sealed juvenile record.

She skimmed her finger down each page, speed reading the pertinent information, ignoring the legalese. It appeared Miss Cole, aged sixteen, had been involved in a hit and run accident with another female driver. Minor injuries. Rather than exchange insurance information or wait for police to arrive, Miss Cole fled the scene.

Later apprehended from an auto repair shop, attempting to have the damages to her father's vehicle fixed without his knowledge. Negative tox screen. Class A misdemeanor, $500 fine, 40 hours of community service,  _yada yada yada_.

Amanda was beginning to think she had agreed to her first sapphic date night for no good reason, until she reached a sentence break at the end of a paragraph detailing damages and injuries sustained by the victim. She wetted her fingertip, flipped to the next page, and read on about the complainant: one Kyra Jacobs, twenty-six, of Greenwich Village.

She reread the name at least three more times before it registered. Even then, she wasn't entirely convinced of what she was seeing. Could it be a misprint? Not likely, since it was repeated multiple times over several pages. A different Kyra Jacobs, perhaps? But how many twenty-somethings with that name could there be living in Greenwich Village?

Amanda knew the answer even before surveying the list of victim's injuries, which included a fractured humerus from bracing for impact. She remembered standing over the girl's body, still beautiful in the morgue's unforgiving light, while the medical examiner inventoried each cruelty done to her. Every deep laceration, every intimate tear. The horror hadn't been limited to the surface but went straight down to bone—x-rays showed she had a dislocated shoulder and several fractured ribs that would never mend. The broken arm, however, was an old injury, fully healed and unrelated to her violent death.

Kyra Jacobs was the Mangler's sixth victim.

"Oh, shit."

For the second time that day, Amanda experienced what her grandmother would have referred to as "the jitters." Her hands were shaking with such nervous energy she could barely stuff the folder back into its empty spot in the cabinet. "Shittin' piece of shit," she griped, slamming the drawer closed and hurrying for the door.

She still had no idea what she'd stumbled into here, but Amelia Cole suddenly resurfacing in Benson's life was no mere coincidence, of that she was now positive. Not when the girl had a connection to at least one of the murdered women whose killer was fixated on the lieutenant. (Sorry, Liv, no sense beating around the bush anymore, time to call it what it is).

She reached instinctively for her phone, ready to call Benson and posit her theory—or argue it, as she so often had to when it came to her rather imposing boss. Then she remembered that Olivia's phone was still in her jacket pocket.

"Shit, shit, shit!"

"What's wrong? Did I solve your case?" Daphne asked as Amanda sped past the reception desk on her way to the exit.

"No, but I think you put me on the right track." Already partially out the door, Amanda leaned back around the corner for one last flash of the dimple, one last flutter of the baby blues. "Thanks again, sugar. See ya Saturday."

A sexually frustrated groan was the only reply.

During the Endless Truth fake news scandal which prompted her to send Jesse to safety with the lieutenant's son and nanny, Amanda had saved the younger woman's number under "Nanny Lucy" in her contacts. She dialed it now, never deviating from her swift pace as she crossed over to the parking garage.

"Hello?"

"Hey, Luce. It's Rollins. Is Olivia back from lunch yet?"

"No, I haven't seen her."

"Damn." Amanda jerked her car door open and slid into the driver's seat. An odor of junk food hung in the air, greasy and cloying, but a welcome distraction from the musty file smell clinging to the inside of her nostrils.

According to the digital dashboard display, it was 1:45 PM. Benson had been gone nearly two hours. Not at all her style.

"Amanda?"

"Yeah, um, listen, I know it's not much fun waiting around in a squad room with a six-year-old but—"

"Stay here, right?"

Thank God for perceptive nannies. Amanda pressed the phone between her ear and shoulder as she put the car in reverse and expertly peeled out of the parking spot. Marksmanship wasn't the only skill she'd developed with her keen eye and quick reflexes. The boys back in Loganville used to call her Dukes, a cheeky reference to her  _Dukes of Hazzard_  stunts behind the wheel.  _Y'all're just jealous_ , she had told them, wearing a shit-eating grin.

"Right. I'm gonna go check out an address in Chelsea," she said, slipping into the flow of busy afternoon traffic, slick as a whistle. "I shouldn't be much longer. Sit tight, okay?"

"We will, don't worry." Lucy hesitated, the acoustics shifting as if she had moved to a distant corner of the room where Noah prattled in the background. "Should I be concerned about Liv?" she asked softly.

"At this point, no. Liv's tough, she can handle herself." Amanda couldn't tell if she had added the last part for Lucy's benefit or her own. But as she told the nanny goodbye and continued on to the current address listed in Amelia Cole's jacket, she caught herself making a mental bet that Olivia had gone there instead of stopping for lunch.

This was one bet Amanda hoped to lose.

 

* * *

 

There were two things of which Olivia was certain: she'd been drugged and her arms had been cut off.

The first she knew based on the literature, numerous survivor testimonies, and her own personal experience of being force fed sleeping pills by William Lewis.  _Oh my God, please don't let it be him! It can't be him, I watched him die! I washed his brains out of my hair, please no—_

Best guess, she was tripping on GHB.  
( _"Georgia Home Boy," Fin said, thumbing through Delia Shahi's toxicology report. "Gotta be. That's why it's not showing up in their systems."_  
_"Please don't call it that," Amanda said, grimacing._ )  
It would explain her inability to stay conscious for more than a few minutes at a time, and also why she couldn't remember anything after breakfast that morning. Noah had been sluggish, and she had to skip her second cup of coffee to get him—

Coffee. Amelia put the drugs in her coffee. That's why she had felt so strangely, why she kept blinking and forgetting to open her eyes again, why she didn't know where she was or how she'd gotten there.

( _The supportive shoulders disappeared from under Olivia's arm, almost toppling her head over heels down the stairs. A hand connected sharply with her cheek, heat blooming on that side of her face. She wanted to lash out, but she was too tired. It was all she could do to put one foot in front of the other as she was led toward another dark stairwell.  
__"Jesus, how much do you weigh?" Amelia huffed, bearing the brunt as they stumbled along._ )

She had drawn the second conclusion—that her arms were missing—based on her inability to sense either limb at her side or anywhere else. Her legs, though heavy as two wooden pillars and just as inflexible, were somewhere beneath her. She was standing, but not standing.

 _When is a door not a door?_  she thought ("When it's AJAR!" Noah loved to shout out. His new favorite joke, though he didn't quite grasp the),

_WHEN ITS CIRCULATION IS CUT OFF!_

Oh, thank God! Her arms were there, she just couldn't feel them! It took every ounce of effort she could muster to twitch one of her fingers, but  _right there!_ , it moved. Fingers meant a hand, and a hand meant an arm. Still, she wanted to be sure. Phantom pain was real, after all, otherwise she wouldn't have spent so many years missing her phantom father.

Her head was a leaden weight, lolling forward uselessly between her shoulders. After several failed attempts, she managed to tilt it back enough to rest against something solid. Prying her eyelids apart took even longer—they were dry and gummy, as if glue had been poured in the slits. When they were open, her vision was too blurred to make out much of her surroundings. She concentrated on bringing the nearest object into focus, and it turned out to be an arm (!), hers, still attached, and raised high like she had a question in class. Its mate, she realized, was the solid thing her head rested upon. They were bound together at the wrist  
( _"—ligature marks probably made by braided nylon rope," Amanda said, pointing to the photo of the dead woman's lurid bracelet of bruises. "Standard hardware store purchase."_  
_"Hey, Fin, maybe Rollins can be your new rope guy," Carisi teased._ )  
and stretched taut into the air by a thick white rope that hung from the ceiling, its exact origin beyond her range of sight. Whatever it attached to was strong enough to support her full weight, because her legs were not holding up their end of the bargain. God only knew how long she had been dangling there like a fish on a hook. She needed to get the blood flowing again.

Gritting her teeth, she dragged her uncooperative legs into a semi-stable position and, through sheer force of will, straightened her knees until she was standing fully on her own. When they didn't immediately buckle beneath her, she felt a moment's exhilaration. Then a searing pain radiated outward from her shoulder blades, her muscles contracting in protest to the sudden release from overextension. She would have doubled forward with the excruciating spasms, but the rope kept her upright. Her fingers were too stiff to grip the slippery nylon cording. ( _Score one, Rollins._ ) A feeble moan escaped her parched lips and she lost what little purchase her feet had gained on the floor.

The darkness claimed her quickly and without warning.

 

* * *

 

"I pictured your face the first time I did this. I must've been about thirteen. It was just a few months after Lewis tortured us. I didn't even really know what I was doing. But I'd watched him with my sister, so I knew enough.

"You should have seen how freaked out I was about getting caught. It was hilarious. I put on this big fluffy bathrobe that had belonged to my mom, and snuck down the hall like I was in disguise. In my own house, for God's sake. What can I say? I was a dumb kid. Tilly's already smarter than I ever was.

"Anyway, I get into the bathroom and I pull the blinds, lock the door, put the clothes hamper in front of it—the whole shtick. Then I climb into the bathtub and close the curtain. Lie down, take off the robe. I still had all my clothes on underneath. It was about the least romantic moment of my life. I expected to see him or my sister—or maybe even my mom, since I could smell her on the robe—but when I shut my eyes, you were there.

"I'm not gay, if that's what you're thinking. But, Jesus, you were so beautiful, even when he hit you and made you all puffy. Even with his blood dripping off your face like Carrie at the prom. I tried to paint that once, but it wasn't the same. I couldn't get your eyes right. That vacant look when he put his mouth on you. When he squeezed your tits like—hey, hey, easy, Liv.

"See, that feels good, doesn't it? It's okay, you don't have to answer. I can feel for myself. Can't exactly hide those under gauzy fabric like this, but then, I bet you knew that, right? It's probably the kind of thing you wear to get the perps all hot and bothered so they'll confess quicker. You did that with Lewis; I read it in the court transcripts. Not that I blame you. You've got a great body—all these sexy curves. And, honey, dat ass. I've always had an affinity for curvy ladies in my artwork, and I probably owe you the credit...

"So, yeah, I imagined him fucking you from behind while I touched myself. I know it didn't really happen that way, but the heart wants what the heart wants. Or the clit wants what the clit wants, might be more accurate? And mine wanted you bent over that table, those big doe eyes locked on me while he reamed it in you everywhere. I wanted him to yank you back by the hair—shh, settle down, it wasn't that hard... yank your hair and make you scream. It was my name I heard you screaming, though. I barely got a finger in before I came.

"Still one of the best orgasms I ever had. Not too shabby for a beginner, eh? To this day, if I wanna get off, all I have to do is replay that scene in my head. Don't tell Carl but I've even done it a few times when I was with him.

"I cut myself for the first time after that, too. Used my sister's razor. The blood got all over my mom's robe, and I had to throw it away. My dad found it in the trash and asked me about it. I told him I'd started my period. He was so clueless about that stuff he actually bought it. Never asked me about the bloody rags in the trash again.

"Of course, Lauren knew what was going on, but she was too fucked up to care at that point. While I was jacking off to your face and carving up my arms, my sister was busy getting hooked on meth. After that, she only cared about her next fix and which guy she was going to blow to help pay for it. She looked about sixty when they called me to ID the body. I hardly even recognized her.

"Yeah, she's dead. Sorry I lied yesterday, but I couldn't exactly tell you I was there as bait. Honestly, I didn't think you'd fall for it, at least not so soon. I mean, it's not like you bothered checking up on me or Lauren in the last five years, so why start now? All I got was a hug and a 'take care of yourself' the last time I saw you. Are you fucking kidding me? I was twelve. Poor Lauren didn't even get that much, and he took everything from her because of you. Fucking bitch!"

The slap came hard and fast. It had a flat sound to it—like hitting a pillow—not the usual startling crack of flesh on flesh. Something was off about the room. It even made breathing more difficult.

"But Carl knew. He said you wouldn't be able to keep your nose out of my business, especially when you found out I had a kid. 'Figures she'd end up with somebody else's, instead of her own.' That's what he said when he told me you adopted Noah. He's been keeping tabs on you for quite awhile, you know. Or, I guess you don't. You're not a very good cop, are you? It's okay, though, he's had a lot of practice, so he knows how to fly under the radar. He learned by watching you, he said. This was going on long before I ever met him, but I got lucky. He sought  _me_  out, trusted  _me_. I guess I have you to thank for that, too. If I hadn't gotten caught up in your mess, he might never have found me.

"I better let him fill you in on the rest. He'll be pissed if I spoil the surprise. He's been waiting on you for years—his perfect muse. And mine, come to think of it. Isn't that funny? Do you even realize what an influence you have over people's lives, Olivia? We meet you at our most vulnerable, and our entire worldview shifts depending on your mood that day. Whether you deem us worthy or not. Lewis thought he was the agent of change. He told me that when he was dragging me around the city like a rag doll. Rambling some crazy shit about changing the trajectory of whatever the fuck. But you're the real catalyst. Lewis was just a spark. You're the flame that consumes us."

Amelia's breath quickened, coming in shallow little gasps that smelled of coffee and cigarettes. It was hot and damp against Olivia's ear, making her want to shrink away in revulsion, as much from the sensation as from the vile soliloquy that same mouth had produced. Her stomach churned dangerously when rough hands jerked her head back into place. ("Stay," growled the girl.) They resumed kneading her breast and buttocks a second later, the warm friction against her thigh increasing steadily, until her tether swayed in sync to the motion, and she along with it.

A hiss of pleasure, a shuddering outside of her own body—and then, blessed stillness. The pressure at her thigh eased away; the hands released their invasive grip.

Olivia gave herself over willingly to the darkness this time, but not before Amelia wiped a tear from her cheek and whispered, "Don't cry, sweet girl. We're just getting started."

 

* * *

 

Two voices now. One female, the other male. He spoke softly though, never altering his pitch, even when the words were harsh. He sounded as if he rarely raised his voice beyond the minimum audible level. It was a restrained tone, menacing in its lack of emotion. A void given the power of speech.

"I told you to wait for me. You couldn't follow one simple request?" he asked, not pausing for an answer. "You better pray she doesn't die. I didn't come this far to have some moronic little twit screw up my plans. You're here as a courtesy, Amelia, don't forget that."

"I know, babe, I'm sorry. I just panicked. She showed up with no warning. I mean, who does that? At least call ahead, right? But there she was, and you said it was time to get her—"

"Yes,  _my_  time, not  _yours_."

" _You_  weren't here. She had her gun and badge and everything. I got nervous. Then she got kinda pissy with me, and she was going to leave. I was afraid she wouldn't come back, then we'd have to find another way to get her here. So I slipped it in her coffee when she was talking to Tilly. And I texted you right before, when she was in the bathroom, but that stuff works so quick. She only lasted, like, ten minutes."

"How much did you give her?" His voice drew closer and a cool, slender hand grazed Olivia's cheek. He guided her face upwards, cupping it between his palms and thumbing open one eyelid, then the other.

"Only the tiniest little bit. Not even half a capful. I didn't want her accidentally biting it like the realtor. Or puking all over like that lesbian chick. So gross. It still hit her pretty hard, so I got her here as quick as I—"

"You gave her the G before you brought her here? Are you a complete fucking idiot, or are you just trying to get caught?"

"I was super careful. I made sure no one was around when I got her downstairs. You know Mrs. Ziegler is the only one home this time of day. That's why we like this neighborhood, remember? And I made her walk the whole way herself. Had to smack her a few times, but it did the trick."

"I didn't tell you you could hit her." The caressing hand returned, soothing Olivia's sore cheek as gently as any lover might have done.

"It was the only way she'd cooperate. I can't carry her like you could. She's not exactly a delicate flower."

From somewhere in the murky soup of Olivia's mind a retort bubbled to the surface:  _Eat me._  Her lips wouldn't convey it from thought to pronunciation, and so it remained lodged in between, like dry toast stuck in her windpipe. She wanted to cough it up, but her lungs didn't expand far enough to collect the requisite breath. In fact, they weren't expanding much at all.

"And yet you managed to truss her up like a wild turkey in some banjo-picking inbred's backwoods shack."

Amelia's laughter started abruptly and ended the same way. "That part was easy. I just tied her wrists and threw the rope over that beam. You know how hard I've practiced to get the knots right. I thought we'd have some fun with her like this first."

"I'm not interested in your pathetic reenactment fantasies of what Lewis did to you and your junkie sister when you were little girls. He was a sloppy washout with a little bit of luck and no artistic vision. He didn't appreciate her the way I do." Fingers raked lightly through Olivia's hair, sweeping away the thick strands that veiled her face. "He almost ruined everything. I won't let anyone—including you—spoil this for me, or for her. Help me get her down."

Amelia heaved a sigh but must have obeyed, because a moment later the rope above Olivia's head slackened and she pitched forward. She braced for impact with the floor, instead finding herself scooped into a pair of strong arms. He lifted her easily, this man, with only a soft grunt to indicate she weighed anything at all. Even in her younger, skinnier days, most men had found it difficult to whisk a woman of her stature off both feet. She'd always worn her height and strength with pride, glad she wasn't—as Amelia so tactfully pointed out—a delicate flower for any man to come along and pluck up.

Now, though, she wanted to sink deeper into the snug embrace, to curl up against the powerful chest and sleep until this nightmare was over. Her old partner, Elliot Stabler, drifted into her thoughts unbidden, as he so often did when she was especially vulnerable. He had made her feel safer than anyone before or since, even at his most violent-tempered moments. There were times during their partnership that she'd felt damn near invincible with him by her side.

It was easy to imagine he was the one carrying her over to the bed and placing her down carefully on the soft, springy mattress. She'd daydreamed that very scenario more than a few times while seated across from him at work, skin ablaze, legs fidgeting beneath her desk until she had to go splash with cold water in the ladies room. Only once did she veer off for the crib instead, giving in to desire after an eighteen hour stakeout—eighteen hours sitting in a cramped car with his masculine scent and chiseled body just inches from hers—had ended in a high speed chase that left her heart pumping so vigorously it thundered in her ears. He'd looked confused when she left the room more out of breath than when she went in.

She had done the good and honorable thing, never acting on her fantasy beyond that youthful solo indiscretion on a squeaky precinct cot. She loved him too much to compromise his family, his faith, his integrity, no matter how willing he might have been to sacrifice them all for her. Or how willing she used to think he might be. He had left her, after all. Without so much as a word or even a goodbye. Her safety net, gone. She'd been in free-fall for such a long time after that. And yet, if he were here now, if it were his hands pressing down into the mattress on either side of her, his face hidden in the shadows above, she would have forgiven him in an instant.

"El?" she asked weakly, peering through barely parted lashes. She longed for him to hold her.

"No. Not Elliot. He walked out on you years ago, Olivia," came the hushed reply, sympathetic in the indulgent way a mother might take pity on a child with a scraped knee. "It hurts when someone you trust deserts you, doesn't it? You taught me that lesson better than anyone. But I've got you now. And you'll never leave me again."

Her muddled brain couldn't reconcile the strange words with the unfamiliar face behind them. A montage of past acquaintances flickered across her vision like alternating film slides from the presentations she'd been forced to sit through in junior high health class. Here was Daniel Mills, the sensitive young poet whose marriage proposal she had accepted at sixteen, only to recant after two weeks of her mother's boozy tirades wore her down; there was Mike Dodds, whose death she might have prevented if she'd only been a little more vigilant. She saw Brian Cassidy, still wet behind the ears as a detective and a lover; Nick Amaro, somehow always managing to look personally affronted by the men she dated; a generic EveryBoy with traits from twenty years worth of children who had been victimized by pedophiles, sex traffickers, and child pornographers, like an ageless Peter Pan that never slew Captain Hook. Her lost boys.

This had to be one of them. And not a recent one, since he knew about Elliot. She studied the passive face, deconstructing its features one at a time, unable to hold anything whole or tangible in her mind for more than a few seconds.

Those eyes. She definitely recognized the steel blue of the irises, though there used to be a glimmer of light behind them. Now they were as flat and empty as the black pupils they encased. A name floated up from the mire, but the deeper she reached for it, the farther it slipped away.

"I know you," she said in a cracked whisper. Licking her dry lips, she tried to force the name off the tip of her tongue: "Carl?"

No, that wasn't right. She'd never met Carl Silvanis, so this couldn't be him. To her, Carl Silvanis was just a name on a business card. In fact, there were times during Amelia's hyperbolic narratives that Olivia had wondered if he even really existed at all. Even now, looking him in the eye, he seemed little more than a dream, a fiction cooked up by her drug-addled brain.

 _When is a Carl not a Carl_ , she wondered groggily.

"Well, that is what I go by these days. But I'll let you in on a little secret," he said, leaning so close his face eclipsed everything else in her field of vision. A dark orb blotting out the sun. She tried to look away, lest she be blinded, but he held her chin in place so she couldn't turn her head. "It's an anagram. And a reference, actually. Ever heard of Silvanus? No? That's all right, I chose him for his obscurity. Or he chose me, depending how you look at it.

"He was one of the Roman gods.  _Sylvestris deus_ , protector of the forests. I'm not particularly outdoorsy myself, but I liked the connection with nature, trees, et cetera. Olivia does mean 'olive tree,' after all. The symbolism is kind of perfect, wouldn't you agree? The tutelary deity tending to the most sacred and enduring of his lot."

Amelia had come alive when she waxed poetic ( _psychotic_ , Olivia amended); this enigmatic boy-shadow, who spoke in riddles—glyphs?—and hovered above her like the god he professed to be, only retreated further into himself until he seemed to look right through her. It was frightening to watch, but she feared closing her eyes even more. She didn't want to disappear into the black hole that waited behind his dead stare.

"Olive trees are significant in most major religions, you see. They're a sign of peace. A dove brought Noah an olive branch after the flood ended. You've got to appreciate the irony of that one." Hints of a smile softened his features, the first emotion he had shown so far.

"They also used to bring the branches as offerings to the gods," he continued, and somewhere beyond the corona that placed him dead center in Olivia's sight, his hands began to roam.

They traveled up and down her arms, across her hips, belly, and breasts. When he slid them behind her neck, she was certain he meant to choke her. But instead, he lifted her up just enough to place a lingering kiss on her forehead. "And what an exquisite offering you are," he murmured, breath tickling her hairline.

"Your name," she said, trying to sound forceful, but falling short at breathless. The pain in her back and shoulders was beginning to overpower the numbness that had kept it at bay while she hung from her wrists. It grated in her joints like broken glass with every slight twitch. Even if she'd summoned the strength to plant a fist in his gut, she probably would have blacked out from that glaring, gritty pain. Better to keep him talking until her brain could form another plan.

"It comes and goes. I shortened it to Cal at first. I've been Cal Drecker, Cal Burlock—in honor of dear old granddad—and even Cal Benson for a while. Guess I was feeling nostalgic with that one. But then I moved back to New York and decided it was time for something new. That's how Carl Silvanis was born."

He lowered her gently back against the mattress, looming over her once more with an unnaturally wide grin that raised bile in the back of her throat. "But you probably remember me best as little Calvin Arliss."

The name echoed in Olivia's ears for a moment, losing all meaning through repetition. "Calvin," she said, testing it out loud. She had often heard that olfactory memory was the strongest, and it must be true because that's how he returned to her—through scent.

Peanut butter and banana sandwiches in those little brown lunch bags he toted off to school everyday; basketball leather from the gleaming orange Spalding she bought to replace the one he had to leave behind; Old Spice body wash in Wolfthorn, which he claimed to like for its fruity smell but had actually chosen for the wolves on its label.

These were the scents she associated with Calvin Arliss, the boy who had almost been her son.

"Calvin," she said again, this time trying to apply it to the bespectacled young man that leaned over her on the bed, his chest pressing against hers. She shook her head, not wanting to believe it.

"Yes, Olivia. It's me. The practice son. The one you bailed on. Let me ask you something: how's it feel knowing you had a hand in raising the kid who grew up to be the Manhattan Mangler?"

 


	5. Demons

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TRIGGER WARNING!: This chapter contains references to incest and graphic depictions of sexual assault.

* * *

 "Don't get too close  
It's dark inside  
It's where my demons hide  
It's where my demons hide"

\- IMAGINE DRAGONS

* * *

 **CHAPTER 5:**  Demons

"Arliss.  _Arliss_?" Fin continued repeating the surname with different inflections, his fingers drumming restlessly at the steering wheel. "Why the hell do I know that name? AR-lissss."

"You sound like a leaky tire," Carisi said from the passenger seat, where he was bent over the open cold case files they had retrieved from Newark storage. One contained a rape kit that had never been tested—part of Jersey's undisclosed numbers in backlog—and which now sat wedged between Carisi's thigh and the wrapper of his pastrami Reuben sub.

He took an overzealous bite, dripping sauerkraut and Thousand Island dressing onto one of the Manila folders in his lap. Casting a sidelong glance at Fin, he swiped the dribble up with a napkin from his takeout bag and resumed shuffling papers as if nothing happened.

"I'm telling ya, I've heard of this Calvin Arliss guy before. Why don't you make yourself useful and Google him?" Fin tossed his cellphone on top of the pile in the detective's lap. "And don't get my screen all greasy with your nasty cabbage fingers."

"Aw, come on, really?" Carisi groaned, gesturing at the phone like it had just insulted him personally. But, with a forlorn look, he put his sandwich aside, wiped his hands a few extra times, and deferred to the search engine.

"Just a bunch of Facebook profiles and some Whitepage entries for first name Arliss," he said after a moment of scrolling. "No Calvins. Oh wait, here's—nah, never mind, I doubt he's a children's book author from New Zealand. And also sixty."

"She said he was fifteen when he attacked her in 2013, so that makes him..." Fin did some quick calculations on his fingers. "About twenty, twenty-one now."

"Young for a serial killer-slash-rapist."

"Yeah, but it happens. Kemper started at fifteen. Dahmer at eighteen. One thing I learned working this job, there's no age restrictions on being a total sicko."

The sergeant had a point. Since becoming an SVU detective, Carisi had witnessed more depravity than he cared to know existed in the world. He didn't think he would ever be completely desensitized to it, nor did he want to be, but listening to the pretty teacher's tearful story about her assault had taken a bigger toll on him than expected. Maybe because she looked so much like his lieutenant.

At the tender age of twenty-four, Janie Price had been a newly hired music director and the youngest faculty member of Whitney Academy when she was sexually assaulted by a student from the high school. The boy, whom she refused to identify at the time, had entered her home through an unlocked window and crawled on top of her while she slept. She awoke to find him exposed and straddling her abdomen in the darkened bedroom. He was pleasuring himself between her breasts.

"I'll never forget the sound of him grunting," Janie had confided, shuddering, as she related the events to Fin and Carisi. It had taken a great deal of convincing for her to even let them in the front door, but once they mentioned that her attacker might be responsible for several rapes and murders in New York City, she had paled and stood aside for them to enter. Ten minutes later she was detailing what she called "the worst night of my life."

He pinned her arms when she struggled, abnormally and terrifyingly strong for someone of his modest size. When she screamed for help, he hit her hard enough to snap her head back against the headboard. Luckily, his youth and inexperience hastened the process along—within seconds he'd ejaculated all over the front of her camisole. Unluckily, that's when he produced the pocketknife and began slicing at the swath of bare skin revealed by the low-cut top.

"Thank God my roommate got home early, or it might've been a lot worse," Janie said, opening the collar of her blouse just enough to uncover an L-shaped scar, jagged and upside down, near her breastbone. "I don't think he was finished, but she spooked him and he ran. Took a pair of my underwear with him."

It was definitely the Mangler's  _modus operandi_ , albeit a very unpolished version (he hadn't even worn a mask). But all serial killers got their start somewhere, and it appeared this one had graduated from peeping Tom to attempted rapist with Janie Price as his debut.

According to the music teacher, she'd caught the boy spying on her at school in the months leading up to the attack and, on more than one occasion, following her home after work. He was a quiet kid, a loner who didn't attend her class but whose aspirations lay in the arts—he seldom emerged from behind his camera—making him seem a kindred spirit. Rather than report his behavior, she had taken pity on him, assuming his unstable home life—popular knowledge around campus—meant he just needed a mentor.

"Basically, I was an idiot," Janie said, this time clutching her blouse closed with a balled fist. Her large brown eyes were brimming with tears. "Young and stupid. I thought I could help him. Make a difference in a kid's life, you know? I even invited him over a couple of times. That's why I couldn't tell the police who he was back then. I thought they'd say it was my fault. That I lead him on or something. So I threw the shirt away and tried to forget."

After repeated assurance that she was in no way to blame for her own assault or any that had occurred since, Janie finally provided the name of her assailant: Calvin Arliss. She didn't know where he'd gone after abruptly leaving Whitney Academy following the attack. She hadn't wanted to know.

"I'm just so sorry I didn't come forward sooner," she'd said while ushering Fin and Carisi to the door after their follow-up. "Maybe I could have prevented some of this. I'm just so sorry."

Leaving her standing there in the doorway, guilt-ridden and re-traumatized, had been the worst part. When Carisi glanced back, he was struck yet again by her resemblance to a young Olivia Benson. The girlishly long raven hair, the full and somewhat pouty lips, the coltish build. Granted, he hadn't known the lieutenant when she was thirty—then again, he was only sixteen at the time and would have been too intimidated to even approach such a woman—but he could imagine. Acting on impulse, he'd trotted back to the front stoop and offered Janie Price his business card.

"What?" he asked, receiving pointed looks from Fin when they drove away. "She might remember something else. Besides, it's my job to look out for the victims."

"Uh-huh. That's all you better do."

There would be no looking out for the other woman whose case file they had recovered. Makayla Dawson adamantly refused their requests for a follow-up interview. A nineteen-year-old computer science major at the time of her encounter with the Mangler, she was now twenty-two and working in a grocery store. She had dropped out of college after being assaulted in her dorm room by a boy she remembered seeing taking pictures on campus earlier that day, though no one else could vouch for his existence when questioned by the first responding officers.

The slash marks on Makayla's chest (another capital L, this one backward) weren't deep enough for serious medical attention, and though semen was found on her abdomen, there had been no penetration. Deemed low priority by the police department and a university eager to protect its reputation, her case fell by the wayside and so, it seemed, had Makayla. Understandably, she didn't want to waste her thirty minute lunch break on a pair of NYPD detectives who showed up three years too late, but she had at least consented to the rape kit being tested.

Now they just needed to get the hell out of Jersey and back on their own turf, where they would have access to all the labs and databases their hearts desired. And Carisi's desired to nail this Calvin Arliss prick once and for all. Young or not, he was an animal. If there was a God—and Carisi hadn't been a devout Catholic his entire life without good reason—then Arliss' DNA would already be in the system and they could pick him up before end of shift this evening.

"I still don't get these glyphs," Carisi said, returning to his Reuben and the evidence photos of the first two victims' wounds. He lined the pictures up next to each other on his knees, ruminating on the patterns and a mouthful of pastrami.

"Yeah, me neither. The music teacher said he got interrupted. Maybe he had to improvise and that's the best he could come up with." Fin scratched underneath his neatly trimmed goatee. "Explains why the number of cigarette burns didn't match up with the number of vics, too. We just hadn't found—"

"Sarge, you're a genius," Carisi practically shouted, rummaging through the makeshift desk formed by his lap. He emerged triumphant with a notepad in one hand and a pen in the other.

Stuffing the last few bites of his sandwich down the hatch in one go, he brought out his cell from a back pocket, poked at the screen several times, and began scribbling on the paper.

"True. Mind telling me why?"

Carisi held up his finger for silence as he studied the series of characters he'd scrawled across the top of the page. He began to regret his ambitious deli selections when his stomach gave a sudden lurch. "Holy Mary, mother of God," he said, then belched pungently into his hand.

"Aw man, I told you not to eat that shit in my car." Fin waved the smell away, nose scrunched in disgust. "Crack a window or something."

"We got a bigger problem than bad breath," Carisi said, punching the automatic window switch to admit a stream of fresh air. He let the the notepad fall against the dashboard with a  _thwack_ , pinning it to the stereo console with an emphatic index finger. "Look."

All along they had been viewing the Mangler's signature cuts as individual markings, unique to each victim. Seeing them confined first to human flesh and then as separate pictures arranged in a case by case grid on bulletin boards didn't help. Theories about their significance ranged from a message in binary code to an enumeration in Roman numerals. But so far no one had considered that they were part of a single, cohesive puzzle—to which Fin and Carisi had just found the missing pieces.

"Get that outta my face before you get us both killed," Fin said, glancing down at the yellow legal pad anyway. "What am I supposed to be looking at?"

"I pulled up the evidence photos of the vics' wounds on my phone. And I had the new— well, old ones next to each other here." Carisi patted the overlapped photographs still balanced on his knees. "It clicked when you said he got interrupted. I don't think he improvised; I think he just spread it out 'cause he didn't get to finish what he was trying to say."

"So, what are  _you_  trying to say?"

"It's not glyphs. It's a name."

With his fingertip, Carisi underscored the row of seemingly innocuous lines that, combined together, spelled out a name in block-shaped capital letters:

[ ](https://imgur.com/1ZAsWXU)

"It's Liv."

"Damn," Fin uttered softly, as if in awe of a particularly bad sports play or footage of the latest pileup on the I-95. He took one look at the traffic ahead, flicked on the emergency siren, and leaned on the gas until they were flying down the highway at no less than eighty. "Get her on the phone. Now."

"Copy that."

 

* * *

 

There were three secrets Lieutenant Olivia Margaret Benson would take to her grave. Perhaps that made her a hypocrite—for all her years of encouraging survivors to speak their truth, to shed light on their worst, most demeaning experiences so the darkness didn't win, she had been nurturing her own inner demons like they'd been forged in the womb. The most clandestine of hideaways.

No man had ever planted his seed there, at least not to see it come to fruition; likewise, she never had—nor would—share those intimate, hidden parts of her psyche with them, the men whose surnames once featured so heavily in her life they were practically mantras: not Stabler or Cassidy, not Amaro or Tucker. Not Barba, who had been more of a brother than her own biological one. Not even Lindstrom, to whom she'd disclosed more details of her troubled past than any other one person—psychologist or layman.

She had tucked the secrets away so deep there were times she herself could pretend they didn't exist. Memory was faulty, after all. (Hadn't she said that to hundreds of women who were unable to recall the previous night's sexual encounter or their childhood abuse?) Maybe if you told yourself hard enough that it never really happened, eventually it became the truth.

 

* * *

 

_My name is Olivia Margaret Benson. I'm a lieutenant in the Special Victims Unit of the NYPD, and these are three things that never happened to me:_

**_*_ **

_As soon as I hear the key in the door, I know something is wrong. It jiggles too much, like she can't remember how to use the keyhole. Or she can't find it. There's a big thud on the other side, a_  "SHHH"  _loud enough to wake up the whole apartment building, a high-pitched giggle. She's brought someone home with her again. I can hear him laughing, too. It sounds spitty and way back in his throat, like he's trying to hawk a loogie._

_I already hate him._

_The door finally bangs open so hard it rattles the pictures in the hall where I'm standing. It's past midnight and I should be in bed, or else I'll get sent to the principal's office for falling asleep in class again. But I can't sleep until I know she's okay, and when she's like this, bad things always happen. Usually she gets hurt, or sometimes I do. It's not her fault, she just doesn't know what she's doing when she's tipsy (that's what she calls it). Like right now—she trips over the little wooden ledge in the doorway, catches her foot on the living room rug, and flops onto the couch. It skids across the hardwood floor with a screech like a kicked animal._

_I want to go help her up and put her to bed, but he comes in, shuts the door behind him, and does the Nestea plunge onto the couch alongside her. He's a stranger. I'm not supposed to bother her at night when she's with guys I don't know. I'd get in big trouble if she saw me watching any of this. Mostly she just yells and it's not too bad. If it gets worse I have to lock myself in the bedroom, though. When that happens, I sleep in the closet with all my stuffed animals._

_I make extra sure they can't see me, which is easy because I'm small. (Shortest girl in my fifth grade class. Mrs. Mason says I just haven't hit my growth spurt yet, that I'll be tall like my mom. She doesn't say anything about my dad. Teachers never do.) I crouch down beside the bookcase that's full of authors with names like Woolf and Plath and Atwood, whose writing I can't really understand. I'd rather read_  The Westing Game  _or_  The Great Gilly Hopkins.  _That disappoints her, I think. When I don't like the same things she does, she gets mad and looks at me hard for a long time afterward._

_They're kissing now. It's gross and slobbery, but I can't look away. She always puts her hand over my eyes when people do this in movies. I know what happens next, anyway. My best friend Tabitha has a fifteen-year-old sister who told her all about sex stuff, and Tabitha told me. It's not bad like my mom says. She told me if a boy tries to touch my privates I'm supposed to kick him between the legs and run away screaming. That's not what she's doing with this loogie-hawker, though. She's letting him squeeze her boobs and put his hands up her shirt._

_He pulls the shirt over her head so she's just sitting there in her bra and skirt, but she doesn't get mad the way I do when the seventh grade boys try to snap my bra on the school bus and call me Pancake because I don't wear one yet. Instead, she lets him reach around and unhook her bra completely. My face gets red when he takes it off. I've seen her naked before—when she gets in and out of the shower or falls asleep in the tub, and there was that one time she tried to make me go skinny-dipping in the courtyard pool after the 4th of July block party when she had LOTS to drink from those red plastic cups—but this is different. It's like watching some other lady who's not my mom, some other lady who bites her bottom lip and says the F-word when Loogie Guy puts his hands up her skirt._

_Just when I think she's going to tell him to stop, she grabs his face and starts kissing him again. He pulls off her underwear and throws them without looking. They land on the lampshade, and the lamp falls over. I'm absolutely positively sure she'll yell at him for that, but they laugh and go on kissing. Then I almost gasp because he leans down and puts his mouth right on her boob—the nipple part—and starts sucking._

_And. She. Lets. Him._

_That is_  not  _something Tabitha told me about, and it makes me want to barf. Only babies are supposed to do that with mothers, and even then it's just for food. I want to yell at him, call him a big loogie baby, and tell him to get off_  my  _mom. But she's making the same sounds as when she eats ice cream straight out of the container, so I guess she likes it?!_

_His hand is moving around under her skirt where it's too dark for me to see (GOOD), and pretty soon she starts jerking her hips back and forth and clawing at his arm. She usually only cusses this much when she's really, really mad, so I'm surprised when she pushes his hand up hard between her legs and says, "Faster."_

_"Yes, ma'am," he says with a big stupid grin, then goes back to sucking. First one, then the other. (In the beam of moonlight coming through the window, I can see his shiny spit on her skin.)_

_"Shut up," she says, and that makes me smile because she finally sounds like herself. But then she drops her head back against the couch and starts moaning so loud it embarrasses me again. I consider sneaking back to my room and closing the door, but I don't want to leave her alone with him._

_After a minute she shouts out God's name, even though she doesn't believe in him and won't let me go to church with my friends. She's sweating and panting more than Jeremy Grindell—the fattest kid in school—after gym class. When she sags down into the couch cushions, Loogie Guy stands up, sticks two fingers in his mouth, and pulls them back out with a wet pop._

_"Mm-mmm, finger-lickin'—"_

_"I thought I told you to shut up," she says, sitting up fast and tugging at his belt to get it off._

_At first he laughs his dumb laugh, but when she yanks his zipper down, he gets serious and starts helping with the pants. The seat of his big white undies are as droopy as a deflated balloon, and I have to cover my mouth to keep from laughing like crazy. It's a good thing I leave my hand there, too, because a second later he whips down his Fruit of the Looms and he's mooning me with his big white butt instead._

_BLECH!_

_It gets way worse when he turns to the side and I can see his thing just hanging there. It's extremely ugly. I've seen that part of a man before in art books and some of the drawings in the studio at Hudson University, where my mom works. (The studio is way more fun to visit than her boring classrooms or her dinky little upstairs office. Plus, the art students are nice to me—they have the best candy, and sometimes the girls braid flowers into my hair and tell me I'm so pretty they absolutely_  must  _sketch my portrait.) And one time an old man walked up to us in the park and opened his long coat; he didn't have clothes on underneath. My mom pushed my face into her stomach before I got a very good look, and she told him he better "get the fuck away from my daughter, or I'll shoot it off." He was running in the other direction with his coat flapping in the wind by the time I turned around._

_Loogie Guy's thing is floppy and dangling from a patch of scraggly black hair, like the world's most disgusting dead fish. I want my mom to tell him she'll shoot it off, but she starts touching it, rubbing it up and down in her fist. The more she rubs, the bigger it gets and the higher it perks up. ("The boy's pecker gets gigantic," I remember Tabitha saying. "It's called a har-don.") I actually do gasp out loud when my mom puts it in her mouth. The stranger is making too much noise for them to hear me._

_He grabs the back of her head and moans, "Oh, Sabrina," over and over. She hates it when people mess up her hair like that._

_I have to bite my tongue to keep from shouting, "Her name is Serena, you retarded loogie baby." She should be the one to say it, but he keeps shoving his thing down her throat until I'm sure either she's going to puke or I am. The SpaghettiOs I made myself for dinner are sloshing around in my stomach, and I have to swallow really hard so they stay put._

_And then the worst thing I can imagine happens. She takes the pecker out of her mouth and white stuff starts leaking from the top like it's a toothpaste tube she squeezed too hard. The gunk drips all over her hand as Loogie Guy pushes her head towards his thing again._

_"Aw come on, baby, open back up," he says, sounding winded and a little bit mad at the same time._

_"Let go," she says, trying to pull away. My heart starts pounding because that's her scared voice._

_"Don't be like that, Sabri—"_

_"Ow! Stop it." She pushes him away, but he has her by the hair and gives her a nasty little shake. "That hurts! I said no!"_

_"Fucking slut. What's your prob—"_

_He never gets the chance to finish, because I jump up from my hiding spot and run at him as hard and fast as I can. When I slam into him from behind it's like hitting a brick wall, but he's too surprised and too tipsy to keep his balance. (Plus, his pants are down around his ankles.) He goes flying forward and smashes face-first into our heavy wooden coffee table where my mom always grades papers. Suddenly there's blood gushing everywhere and he's holding his nose and screaming bad words._

_Serves him right, the big ugly pecker baby. I stand there with both fists planted on my hips, trying to look tougher than I am. "Get away from my mother, or I'll shoot your dick off," I yell without thinking. I've never said the word 'dick' out loud, until now. It just feels right._

_"What the fuck?" he shrieks. His face is purple-red, he's so angry. I'm getting really worried when he stands up and stumbles towards me, his thing still out and bobbing with every step._

_All at once my mom jumps up from the couch and grabs me. I expect her to push me behind her or hide my face the way she did at the park, but she spins me around and slaps me so hard that I'm the one who goes flying this time. The Persian rug burns my arms as I slide across it and thump my head on the floor. I lie there for a second like a cartoon character with stars spinning around its noggin. There's something slimy on my cheek and I realize it's the white stuff she got on her hands from his dick. It smells just as awful as it looks._

_"Go to your room, Olivia!" she screams so loudly it makes her whole body shake._

_I want to scream back that I was protecting her, that moms aren't supposed to do gross sex things with strange men while their ten-year-old daughters are home alone in bed. But her face terrifies me—I've never seen her so mad, not even when I find her secret bottles and empty them down the drain—so I crab-walk backwards where she can't reach, then twist around and hop to my feet._

_"What's her name? Olivia?" Loogie Guy asks. "Bring her here. I'll teach her a lesson."_

_I don't stick around to find out what kind of lesson he means. I'm racing down the hall to my bedroom door when I hear her scream at him:_

_"GET THE FUCK OUT!"_

_A second after I slam my door shut, the front door slams too. I still reach up and turn the lock before I run into the bathroom, shut that door, and lock it fast behind me. Then I bend over the toilet and sick up what looks like an entire can of SpaghettiOs. I'll never touch another bowl of those again. And as I stand in front of the mirror, crying and scrubbing my sore cheek with a wet washcloth until it's raw, I decide two things:_

_1\. I hate my mother. (I don't let her in my room, even when she stops banging on the door and starts to cry and apologize.)_

_And 2. I will never, ever, ever tell anyone what happened here tonight. Not for as long as I live._

*** ***

_Crouching down behind some shelving and stacks of blankets that have a musty storage smell, I try to make myself as small as possible. It's not a strategy I'm used to, this cowering in the dark like a frightened child, but he's so strong. My muscles feel tight and feverish from being slammed into the wall and manhandled by his powerful grip. I would double-up in a ball right here on the cool basement floor if I could. Anywhere besides the filthy mattress that reeks of come and piss. I will not go back there, even if it kills me._

_He's making a racket, knocking things over, bashing them with his baton. He actually drags the damn thing across the chain link partitioning, like a horror movie villain hunting for the dumb blonde who ran up the stairs instead of out the front door. (I guess that makes me the dumb blonde.) It's all a big scare tactic, but the bitch of it is, it's working. My heart is racing so fast I'm afraid it might explode, and I can't catch my breath._

_Razor-sharp terror slices through me when his flashlight sweeps over my hiding spot, illuminating it briefly. I don't think he's seen me yet, but he's close enough to hear my ragged breathing if I'm not careful. I consider taking my chances and charging him—then I remember him lifting me clear off my feet while I fought him with every bit of strength I have. I'm outmatched and that paralyzes me with fear. I couldn't move, even if I wanted to._

_None of that matters anyway, because he's found me._ Guess whose ass is mine now, _he says, shining the flashlight in my eyes. I think of all the women who have told me the vile things their rapist said to them—before, during, or after—and I wonder if this will become part of my narrative, the words burned into my brain as the last thing I heard in the Before. (I'm not sure if there will be anything left of me for an After.)_

_I stammer out something apologetic, hoping that if I seem compliant he might lose interest or at least simmer down enough for me to gain some control of the situation. Fighting just turns him on. I felt the evidence of that pressing against my ass when he had me pinned to the wall a minute ago._

_He makes me come to him like a disobedient dog. It should be no surprise that he punishes me in a similar fashion, but the baton still snatches my breath away when it slams into my abdomen. My legs go out from under me with the same brute force, and I'm on my knees again, every inch of my body racked with pain by the repeated jarring. It sends a surge of adrenaline through me, though, and I manage to drive my elbow directly into his groin. That should soften him up a bit._

_Finally, I make it to the exit, only to find it locked up tighter than a drum. My throat burns from screaming, but I'm out of options so I do it anyway, at the top of my lungs. From somewhere in the back of my frantic brain, a memory surfaces. Little Liv, six years old and clutching Jenny—my lookalike Fisher-Price doll with bangs and dark brown pigtails—whom my mother had just used to demonstrate where boys were not allowed, under any circumstances, to touch me. "If he tries, you kick him between the legs as hard as you can and run away screaming, Livvy. Got it?"_

_I got it, Ma. And I'm trying._

_Serena Benson's sage advice might have been useful for her scrappy little girl on the playground, but it isn't much good down here in the bowels of Sealview with Lowell Harris, a repulsive son of a bitch who has at least three inches and sixty pounds on me. When I whirl around to search for another way out, he's already standing there seething, the front of his trousers still bulging at the crotch. He hits me in the face so hard I almost blackout. I hear a woman's heartrending sobs and pleas, and my first instinct is to help her. Then I realize it's me._

_I look up to see him standing above me—I must have fallen, or he's tripled in size, I'm not sure which—handcuffing my wrist to the security bars in the door. Seized by the blind panic an animal must feel when it wanders into the hunter's trap, I writhe helplessly on the floor beneath him. It's not a word I've ever applied to myself: 'helpless.' Tears of frustration and defeat sting my eyes at the thought, and to my complete and utter shame I begin to weep openly._

You bite me and you're dead,  _he warns, and there's no doubt in my mind he means it. Risa Tyler's cold dead body in the infirmary is proof enough, but he locks my head between his hands in a vise grip and I'm one hundred percent certain of his ability to snap my neck at the least provocation. He knows his pressure points, too; thick, brutal fingers dig into the bite release behind my jaw, wedging it open for his convenience. One wrong move and I'll be drinking my meals through a straw for the next six to eight weeks. If I survive._

_When he undoes his pants and frees his erection, pulsing red and much larger than I feared, all the fight drains out of me. I regress to my ten-year-old self, hiding behind a bookcase full of feminist literature as I watch my mother gobble down the first real penis I've ever seen. I've never been particularly fond of performing oral sex—a major buzzkill for many of my old college boyfriends—finding it a rather degrading experience. I always thought too much exposure to the sleazy (and often horrifying) nature of the porn industry was to blame. Now I remember why, for me, fellatio is synonymous with tears and humiliation._

_I spot his mole, the size of a 9 millimeter bullet hole and a muddy shade of brown, nestled in the juncture between his shaft and heavy, dusk-skinned scrotum. Images of a toilet bowl filled with half-digested pasta rings and blood-colored sauce flicker across my mind's eye. Uh-oh, SpaghettiOs._

Please,  _I cry in a weak, last-ditch effort. He silences me with his cock, sliding it between my parted lips in a smooth, practiced motion. It meets resistance at the back of my throat, gagging me, but he arches his pelvis and hums with approval at the snug fit he discovers further in. My free hand catches something (his belt buckle?) and I squeeze until it pierces the skin of my palm, releasing my blood if nothing else._

That's a good girl,  _he says hoarsely, mistaking the reflexive thrust of my tongue as an invitation for more, rather than an attempt to push him out. Tears spill down my cheeks in a steady stream as I struggle not to choke. He wipes them away with his thumbs, tilting my head back for deeper access._

Hope the rest of you is this tight. I can go for hours with a ripe little cunt like you.  _He grunts this while looking me directly in the eye, and something inside of me crumbles. For the briefest moment, I don't care whether I make it out of here alive or not._

_Then all at once there are shouts coming from across the room and he lets me go to slump bonelessly against the door. I gulp lungfuls of air into my vacated mouth, disoriented by the sudden freedom from his cruel hands, his crueler sex._

_Fin. The shouts were his. I see him glaring at Harris, saying something to the bastard that makes him yank his pants up, concealing his weapon of choice. Both men look my way, one with deep concern, the other with pure hatred. It snaps me out of my stupor, the need to save face, to tough it out with the boys. When you're a woman in a male dominated profession you either shape up or ship out, so I pull myself upright and stand on legs that feel like gelatin. By rote, I inform Harris he's under arrest for Ashley Tyler's rape and—with Fin looking on, listening—my attempted murder. There's a glint in the captain's eye, I'm sure of it, as he asks if I'm a cop._

Who's the bitch now?  _I quip, more for the men's benefit than my own. My throat is gravelly and sore from being reamed, and I'm trembling uncontrollably, so it's not exactly my strongest comeback. But it sets the ball in motion—Fin cuffs Harris first, then uncuffs me with extra care, which I pretend not to notice, along with the steadying arm he offers as he leads us all out of this hellhole. I don't look back._

_Twenty minutes later I'm in the B-block lavatory, puking up what's left of Sealview cafeteria's version of Salisbury steak. Yet another dish forever ruined for me via some prick's prick. Fin, bless his heart, is standing guard outside the door while I get my bearings. I'm still in the hideous orange jumpsuit I'll have to wear until the quarantine is lifted and I can get the hell out of this godforsaken place. I crave a hot shower so badly I ache. Or maybe that's the bruises._

_I step cautiously in front of the grimy mirror which offers a distorted funhouse reflection. Other than the scarlet mark that will certainly darken the majority of one cheek with a hefty bruise, I don't look all that different. Mussed and exhausted, yes, but there are no external indications of oral sodomy. Another word I never expected to use on myself: 'sodomy.'_

_I dry heave into the sink until I'm a shaky, tearful mess all over again. Yeah, that's not a word I'm ever going to let anyone associate with me, including myself. Without stopping to consider the consequences, I lean over and swish several handfuls of sulfur-scented water from the trickling tap. I would down an entire bottle of mouthwash if one were readily available._

_He didn't ejaculate, not even close. And I didn't bite down, though God knows I would have tried if given the chance. He was barely in my mouth for more than a few seconds, anyway, so DNA is highly improbable. In fact, the whole thing didn't last long enough to be considered such an invasive and hateful act as forceable sodomy._

_I lie to myself in the mirror for another minute or so, then turn my back on that woman and walk out. It will be months before I can relate even the most general details of my assault to someone; years before I can get into specifics; but the full story, the ugly uncensored truth, will forever belong to one person—the Olivia Benson that I used to be._

You okay?  _Fin asks when I emerge._

Yeah, all good,  _I respond._  Let's go home.

*** * ***

_Despite my swollen, aching bladder, it takes almost a full fifteen seconds for the pee to come. Then, once it starts, it won't stop. It's been hours—days, possibly—since he's let me near a bathroom. The last time was right before he raped and tortured his attorney's mother. (I was too dehydrated to produce any tears while he forced me to watch every sick and depraved thing he did to her, but my heart broke for that poor woman. The last time I felt so powerless to stop something was five years ago in the basement of Sealview Correctional Facility, with Lowell Harris looming above me.)_

_And at some point earlier on, while I was practically comatose from the combination of Ambien and vodka he pours down my throat like candy, my body had taken over and relieved itself for me. I can still smell the urine, though my pants have long since dried. It reminds me of my childhood, never knowing where I might next find my mother passed out in a puddle of her own bodily fluids. The smell is—was? It's so hard keeping track of time right now—always the first clue. He's reduced me to the same pathetic booze- and piss-soaked slob as Serena Benson in her heyday, and I hate him for that most of all._

Jesus,  _he says as the relentless flow continues. Of course he hasn't given me any privacy for this. Not that I expected him to. After all, this is the same man that whistled at my pubic hair after sliding my panties down, then engaged in an impromptu groping session of my bare ass before plunking me unceremoniously onto the toilet seat, hands still cuffed behind my back. His version of assistance, I suppose._

What're you, Tom Hanks in  _A League of Their Own_?  _He scratches his chin with the muzzle of my gun—which doesn't accidentally go off, pity—and looks at me like he's about to start humming the_  Jeopardy!  _theme song_

_I keep staring straight ahead, pretending he doesn't exist, though I can see every movement in my peripheral vision. Especially that of the Glock. My hands long for it the way my parched, duct-taped mouth longs for water._

_At last the trickle dwindles out, the excruciating pressure at my pelvis alleviated. It's replaced by an intensely uncomfortable burning sensation, and I wonder if I've developed a bladder infection. The least of my worries at the moment, to be honest._

Done?

 _I nod dully. It's been three, maybe four days since I've eaten. (And that was just two bites of a Snickers bar he waved in front of my face before claiming it for himself, devouring the rest in a single, smirking bite._  Don't wanna get hangry,  _he'd said around the mouthful, teeth stained with chocolate. Though I'm loathe to admit it, his breath made my mouth water.) My system is a mess from the pills and alcohol, anyway; I couldn't do anything else if I tried._

_He unravels the last few remaining squares of dust-covered toilet paper on the roll. It's not enough, but beggars can't be choosers. I lean over to display the cuffs, praying he will unlock them so I can take care of this part on my own. He doesn't._

Do you pat or wipe?  _he asks, as if inquiring about my bagging preferences at the grocery store. Paper or plastic, ma'am?_

Fuck you,  _I say, but it's muffled by the tape and I have to swallow it back down like bitter medicine. It makes me cough, air expanding my cheeks and, finding no escape, puffing out through my nostrils. My tongue adheres to the roof of my mouth, silencing any further retorts._

You're adorable,  _he says, tapping the end of my nose with his fingertip. It's the same hand he's holding the gun in, and I shy away, which just amuses him more. He nudges my knees apart with one of his, then reaches down to pat me dry. My entire body goes rigid at his touch, a scream building up inside of me, but for once he keeps it brief and to the point._

_His face is inches from mine, and I let my eyes glaze over till I'm looking right through him. He snorts, drops the toilet paper in the bowl, and stands. I prepare to be hauled to my feet again, an unpleasant and taxing experience on the whole. But he just lingers there with his crotch in my face, gazing down intently at me. When he reaches for his zipper, there's a sudden white-hot jolt in my gut. I jerk back against the porcelain tank and nearly tumble sideways off the wobbly seat as he sticks a hand in the waistband of his briefs, guiding his penis up and over._

Whoa! Easy there.  _He thrusts his gun hand out to block my fall, then loops it behind me to rest the weapon on the tank cover. His flaccid dick is close enough to touch, to kiss if I were so inclined, and I squirm wildly to get away, heedless of the pain that rips through various parts of my body._

 _He grabs me by the shoulders and shakes me until my teeth clash together behind the duct tape._  For fuck sake, woman, calm down. I've been driving for hours too, you know. God.

_Sliding his hands underneath my armpits, he lifts me up like a small child and stands me against the wall beside the toilet. Fisting the front of my shirt, he pins me there so I can't run, even though my pants are still around my thighs and I won't be running anywhere while I'm this woozy._

What was that all about?  _he asks conversationally, knuckles digging into my chest as he leans on that hand and uses the other to aim a noisy jet of urine into the bowl._  Did little Olivia get forced to fellate a dirty old uncle? Cousin, maybe? Want to sit on Daddy Bill's lap and talk about it?

_I roll my eyes in his direction, conveying as much disgust and animosity through them as I possibly can. Then I roll them away just as quickly so he won't see the truth there. He's dangerously perceptive, this one, and I will not give him anymore ammunition to use against me than he already has. Which, considering the state I'm in, is a lot._

No? Okay, we'll come back to that later. You just need some of ol' Billy boy's sexual healing, and you'll forget all about that naughty uncle.

_This time I close my eyes and let my head drop back against the wall. I've spent the last however many days listening to him brag about the variety of ways he's going to fuck me. I'm so sick of it I could scream. In fact, I feel the urge rising in me again, and I inhale deeply to force it back down. There's a sharp twinge in my rib cage to remind me why screaming is a bad idea. Pretty sure he broke some ribs last time I tried it._

_I start to drift now that my eyes are shut, but they fly wide open the second I sense his warm breath near my forehead. He's standing intolerably close, smiling down at me like a sleepy lover the morning after. I can't help it, I automatically glance towards his zipper. Some of my panic subsides when I see that it's closed tight. And flat._

_But I still don't like the way he's looking at me. He reaches up and strokes the hair away from my face so gently it tickles. That makes me shiver. It's too much to hope he hasn't seen, so I lift my chin defiantly, willing the goosebumps on my exposed thighs to fade._  Just pull my pants up already, you twisted fuck,  _I shout at him in my head._

_He chuckles and picks the Glock up from the toilet tank. I watch warily, following its movement like a doctor's finger during a neurological exam. Out of the blue he begins to hum a song I recognize from my childhood. (One of my mother's favorites, actually. How a woman who preferred Bach to rockabilly ever became a fan of Steve Miller Band, I'll never know.)_

_Leaning closer still, he singsongs a verse in my ear:_

'Cause I'm a picker, I'm a grinner, I'm a lover, and I'm a sinner...

_It's better than the damn 'Ain't We Got Fun' crap he blared in the car, warbling along at the top of his lungs for half the drive here. Wherever here is._

...a joker ...smoker ...I'mma midnight toker, get my lovin' on the run...

_As he sings the last few bars, he trails the muzzle of the gun along my jawline and down the length of my neck. When I try to move away, he braces his forearm across my collarbone, pressing with his full weight. My arms are mashed painfully between my back and the wall; I have nowhere else to go. I've never been claustrophobic, but I imagine this is what it feels like._

_He butchers some more of the lyrics as he returns the gun to its meandering path, starting at my shoulder and heading south, over the crest of his arm. When it's point-blank at my chest, he croons in my ear again,_  You're the cutest thing that I ever did see...

_And then the muzzle circles my breasts, slowly, tauntingly—_

I really love your peaches, wanna shake your tree...

_I steel myself for whatever comes next, determined not to give him the satisfaction of seeing me react—but I fail miserably. A whimper escapes when he digs the metal tip into the swell of soft flesh just above the cup of my bra, right where he put out his cigarette hours/days/weeks ago. I'd almost forgotten about the burns. Most were inflicted through clothing and should fade with time, but he'd yanked the front of my shirt down and applied the smoldering Lucky Strike directly to my skin for that one. There's a serpentine mark seared into my hip from a wire coat hanger as well. Mementos to cherish forever, courtesy of William Fucking Lewis._

_Now, he abandons the cigarette burn and concentrates on my nipple. With a few strokes of the gun, he coaxes it into a firm peak beneath the thin layers of my shirt and bra. He does the same to the other, leaning back to admire his work._

_I want to tell him not to get too cocky, that—after days without food or water, after being plied with alcohol and drugs, after all the sleep deprivation and torture—my entire being is poised on a hair-trigger, my nerves so on edge I would probably jump out of my skin at the lightest touch of a feather. But he wouldn't believe it, and frankly, neither do I. Normal physiological response or not, I feel betrayed by my own body._

Stop,  _I growl through clenched teeth, duct tape be damned. He'll get the picture. And if not, my attempt to knee him in the balls should do the trick._

_He easily knocks it aside with his own knee, which he uses to force my legs open. He kicks my ankles far apart like doorstops he's trying to wedge in just the right spot. I give a startled cry at the sharp blows, but also because I'm sliding down the wall, unable to catch myself or bring my feet together to remain standing. He pins me in place with his forearm again, I the insect specimen, he the collector._

_The gun jabs into my stomach suddenly, and I grit my teeth, half-expecting it to go off. Instead, he nudges my shirt up and traces the muzzle around my belly button. I almost wish he would start singing again. At least when he's flapping his gums I have some idea of what his next move will be._

_As if he read my mind, he murmurs one more line from the song_  
(Lovey dovey, lovey dovey, lovey dovey all the time...)  
_while arcing the gun from one hip to the other, then sliding it down past my pelvis. It stops just above the tidy cluster of pubic hair he was so taken with earlier._

_I'm not surprised. He's been using the weapon as a surrogate dick since he got his hands on it—as men so often do. I wonder if this is what it's come to: lady cop raped with her own gun. (Previously sodomized by fellow police officer.)_

_No. Absolutely not. I say it behind the tape, shaking my head vehemently. I glance around for something, anything to use against him. There's a towel bar a few inches from my head. I can visualize ripping it out of the wall and using it to smash his skull in, but then I blink and I'm still here, about to be violated with a loaded Glock, right next to a toilet full of piss._

Did your mother ever bake you a cake when you were a kid?  _he asks, toying the muzzle idly at some curls. He sighs after a moment and looks up for my answer, setting the gun aside on the sink ledge._

_Completely disoriented by the abrupt change, I stare at him dumbly for several seconds. My legs would give out from the sudden rush of relief if he weren't keeping me upright. I realize I've been holding my breath, and I draw a loud stream of air in through my nose._

_He raps his knuckles against my forehead like it's someone's front door. Hello, anybody home?_  Focus, Olivia. Cake.

_I have no desire to share even the most innocuous personal information with this man, especially when it involves my mother. For years, my best kept secret. But I'm also ready for this new game, whatever it may be, to end. So I give a single, sharp nod. Yes, on the rare occasions that she wasn't too drunk to remember my birthday, my mother had baked me a cake. Usually lopsided, but still delicious._

Chocolate, right? All that yummy cocoa batter.  _His eyes roll back in his head and he moans, for effect._  Did she let you dip your finger in the bowl and lick it off?

_He's waiting for a reply, so I twitch my shoulders up in a faint shrug. Yeah, sure, I guess._

'Course she did. Who could resist those sweet little lips of yours?  _He winks at me and pecks the tiniest of kisses to the corner of my mouth, as if the tape isn't there._  I always wanted a mom who'd let me do that.

_His empty hand, the one I was so glad to see put down the pistol, is suddenly cupped at my groin. Before I have time to struggle or even realize what's happening, he slides his middle finger inside of me. I'm dry, but he forces it to the hilt, making my pelvis jerk in response. A small, childish whine escapes my throat, shaming me deeply._

_It's over as quickly as it began. He pulls his finger out, sticks it in his mouth, and sucks it clean from knuckle to tip._  Mmm, better than red velvet,  _he murmurs intimately._

 _Then he's pulling up my pants and righting my clothes like we just had a quickie in the supply closet at work. He tugs me back towards the bedroom, giving me a sound slap on the ass before tossing me onto the bed._  Save me a nice big slice for when I get back, 'K?

 _Later, as I'm standing over him with the iron bar in my hands, watching the dark red_  
_(velvet)  
_ _puddle expand towards my shoes from beneath his dented skull, I wonder how much of my soul I'll leave behind in this empty beach house._

_I'm still frozen in place, clutching the bar like a lifeline, when my team arrives. It takes a full five minutes for them to pry it from my hands and snap me back to reality. They are the first to whom I lie. The next is the SANE nurse whose palm rests gently on one of my upraised knees as she asks if there was penetration of any kind. By the time William Lewis goes to trial, I've gotten so good at picking and choosing the details of my assault, I almost believe myself. I refute every suggestion that I suffered anything more than a four day mindfuck, all the while making direct eye contact with ol' Billy boy._

_Piece of cake._

 

* * *

 

It had been months since Olivia last woke from a dream in a cold sweat. She had the nightmares mostly under control these days, but when they manifested as real and vivid memories, there was little she could do to stop it. Rather than lie in bed and stew, the best course of action was to get up, get going, fix Noah breakfast, lose herself in the day's routine.

It wasn't until she tried to sit up and found herself paralyzed from the waist down that she remembered she was in trouble. Terrible trouble. Someone had drugged her (Harris? Lewis?) and strung her up by the wrists. There were two of them, she thought, a man and a woman. They were planning to take her son away.

As long as she was still breathing, they were going to have one hell of a fight on their hands.

She focused all her concentration on opening her eyelids, which seemed to be out of sync, one working independently of the other. Once that was accomplished, she blinked slowly until the room came into focus, along with the reason she couldn't move her legs. He was sitting on them.

For several moments, they simply regarded each other with neutral expressions, like strangers catching each other's eye on the subway. In one hand, he held a straight razor with an ancient-looking wooden grip, the kind you might see in a barber shop that still had a striped pole out front. The blade was folded into the handle, but Olivia didn't doubt its bite. She'd seen firsthand what it could do to human flesh.

Now she remembered. The man (who was really just a boy, who was Carl Silvanis, née Calvin Arliss) straddling her thighs was the serial rapist and murderer who had been terrorizing women throughout the city for close to a year. The man she had helped raise, if only for the wink of an eye. It still didn't seem possible, but nothing about the present situation did. Yet here she was, trapped on another dreary mattress in another dreary room, by a man capable of unspeakable horrors.

"You're just as beautiful as I remembered," he said in his eerily quiet voice. "I've been watching you for a long time, of course, but I couldn't get too close. Until now."

"Where's my son?" she asked, trying to prop up on her elbows to look around. Her arms didn't budge. Tilting her head back, she saw why—her wrists were still tied together, this time to the arched headboard of an iron frame bed. A stab of terror pierced the hazy veil draped over her senses by the drug. Terrible trouble.

"You like? It's vintage. Millie scoured every thrift store and flea market from here to Poughkeepsie to find it." He gave an indulgent little chuckle. "She wanted to search for the original—she's all about preserving authenticity for her little reenactment fantasies—but I told her it was probably in some evidence warehouse."

"Where's Noah?"

"She is good at hunting things down, I'll give her that. Found this for me." With deliberate care, he unsheathed the razor and let it glint in the light of a naked bulb that dangled from the ceiling. Any questions as to its sharpness were laid to rest when he sheared off a sliver of his thumbnail in one glancing stroke. "It belonged to my grandfather. She actually tracked down his old cell mate to get it. Jason Gambel, remember him? Spineless weasel still had some of Burlock's stuff stashed away in his shithole apartment. Once a bitch, always a bitch, I guess. Anyway, a bunch of old girly magazines and gramps' shaving kit—that's my legacy."

"Noah," she repeated with as much emphasis as her paper-thin voice could muster. Before she worried about her own predicament, she had to know that her boy was safe. "Tell me where he is."

"Noah is fine. Doing his homework with Lucy, last time I checked. He's a good boy, you should be proud." Calvin buffed the blade with his sleeve and held it up to the light admiringly. "To be honest, I'm not interested in the whole 'big happy family' fairytale like Millie is. I go along with her little whims to keep her happy, but I'm not in the business of kidnapping six-year-olds."

Relief swept over Olivia, so sweet and profound it brought tears to her eyes. Noah wasn't hurt; they didn't have him. She had a reason to get out of this room alive. But in order to do that, she would first have to figure out what made Calvin Arliss tick. He obviously wasn't the same good-natured boy she had known eight years ago.

"So you just torture women? Rape them, kill them," she said, her gaze following the razor he kept displaying for her benefit. "Carve them up? What happened to you, Calvin? You were such a sweet kid—"

"That's rich, coming from you. If I was so great, why did you ship me off to Vermont with those geriatric assholes?"

Olivia shook her head and tried to clear the fog that closed in with every blink of her lethargic eyelids. "I didn't want that. Your parents gave me no choice."

"Those two old fogies hated me, you know. They blamed me for my father ending up in prison. Like I passed  _my_  tainted bloodline on to  _him_." He punctuated both pronouns with the razor, slashing at the air with sudden ferocity. "As far as they were concerned, I was just the evil spawn of my dyke mom and my rapist grandfather."

From what she recalled about Calvin's paternal grandparents, they had seemed like nice enough people. A little perplexed at finding themselves rearing another child in their golden years, but happy to provide a stable and loving home for their grandson. That had been the one comfort Olivia held onto after having the boy literally ripped from her arms. "I'm sure that's not true. I could tell how much they cared about you—"

"Oh, really? When? The one or two times you invited us to visit? Or maybe during the handful of phone conversations we had—which they monitored? Did your cop intuition tell you I was fine when they were locking me in my room at night or dragging me to church to have the demons cast out? Is that why you forgot about me after one goddamned year?

"One!" he repeated sharply, and without warning, raised his arm high, bringing the razor blade down with an audible  _swish_.

The depressant still oozing its way through Olivia's bloodstream, coating her central nervous system like sticky black tar, had considerably delayed her reflexes, but she wouldn't have been able to block the assault anyway. As if each movement occurred under a great depth of water, she watched the blade approach, watched it incise the sleeve of her blue silk blouse, watched the blood pearl then begin to seep from the slender cut to the underside of her restrained arm. It didn't even hurt at first—the only sensation was a puff of cool air against exposed skin. Then it began to sting so badly she feared he'd nicked something vital.

"Shit," she hissed under her breath, eyes watering profusely. Words tumbled from her mouth now, before he had the chance to lash out again (she'd seen enough of his handiwork to know that when he got started, he didn't like to stop): "I didn't. I never forgot you, Calvin. I wanted to come see you, but they said it was better if I stayed away."

"Do not lie to me, Olivia," he said. "It's not in your best interest." But a moment later, he withdrew the weapon and settled his full weight back on her thighs. "When did they supposedly tell you this?"

"That Halloween they brought you down for the weekend. They told me you were acting out afterwards. Fights at school, mouthing off."

Olivia had experienced a little of that herself with young Calvin as her ward, so she'd sympathized when the Dreckers called up, dismayed by his behavior. At the time, she had been wholly unprepared for motherhood and thought it best to defer to the older, more experienced couple in matters of parenting. They were Calvin's legal guardians, after all. But looking back, she wondered if she'd respected their wishes for his sake, or her own. It had nearly ripped her guts out losing him the first time. She couldn't do it over and over.

None of that mattered now, though. He was clearly lost to her forever.

"They thought you needed time to adjust, asked me not to contact you for a while," she said, battling the fatigue that caused her to slur every other word. It occurred to her that she sounded like Serena—drunk and making excuses—and for just a moment, she didn't blame him for hating her.

Calvin stared down thoughtfully at her, the brief glimpse of rage gone, an even-tempered mien fixed in its place. "That does sound like them. Always taking away my fun."

As he spoke, he placed both hands on the mattress at either side of her midsection, scooting himself forward to straddle her hips. He leaned in, his blank voice no more than a whisper, though it seemed to fill every corner of the room: "Bet they didn't tell you the whole story. Like how I got suspended for making a peephole in the girls' bathroom, then expelled for threatening to cut a teacher's breasts off with a pair of scissors."

Olivia's breath caught in her throat as he brought the straight razor towards her chest, gliding it over the hill of one breast and then the other, before resting it in the valley between. She tried to remain perfectly still, though every impulse she had honed for the past twenty-six years told her to fight like hell. In the end, the drugs overpowered not only her training but also her will—a much more fearsome and deadly opponent to break. She lay there, scarcely daring to breathe, let alone speak.

"And I know they didn't tell you about all the neighborhood pets that went missing the following summer. No one ever did figure that one out." His face quirked into its strange unsmile, all teeth and no eyes. "Ever heard the noise a cat makes when you cut off its tail?"

(terrible trouble)

"Or an ear?" He poised the blade near the side of her head, close enough it mingled with the dusting of baby-fine strands that grew where her hairline curved behind her ear. The spidery tickle made her shiver.

"Please—" She cut short the rest, wincing as blade made contact with skin. It was the slightest of grazes, no more pressure than what you'd expect from a butterfly wing, but it ignited a fire on that whole side of her face. For a moment she feared he actually had sliced her ear off, until she felt the blood pooling inside of it, trickling around the outer rim, and drip-dropping onto the mattress. "I'm so sorry, Calvin," she choked out, panic threatening to snatch away her already tenuous hold on reality.

That seemed to grab his attention. He lowered the razor, resting it against his thigh, and really looked at her, instead of at whatever version of her dwelled in his warped mind. "For what? A few dead puppies and kitty cats? Save your pity, I had a blast that summer."

"I'm sorry I didn't know what was happening to you. That you were being mistreated. I should've followed up better."

"Yes, you should have. That's what any halfway decent mother would do."

 _Thank God I'm not your damn mother, then_ , she thought. "I know. I'm sorry," she said. "I wish I'd been there to get you the help you needed."

"Help? Like a shrink?" He threw his head back and laughed soundlessly, his mouth open in what could just as easily have been a silent scream. "I don't think your Dr. Huang or Dr. Lindstrom would've had much luck with me."

A chill ran down Olivia's spine at the casual mention of the two men, one of whom she hadn't worked with in years, the other associated with some  
(but not all—no, not all)  
of the most guarded parts of her life. She vaguely remembered being told Calvin had kept tabs on her, but for how long? And how far into her private life did his reach extend? More importantly, how had she missed it? She felt more violated by the idea of him snooping into her personal business than by lying there motionless beneath him; she felt like a fool.

"I was too far gone by then," Calvin went on. "Hell, I was too far gone by the time Vivian dumped me on you."

"I don't believe that." She shook her head, the blood shifting in her ear canal like chlorinated water after a day at the pool. As a kid, she would hop up and down on one foot, head tilted sideways, trying to shake loose the maddening clog. It still made her giggle with delight whenever Noah did the same thing after bath time. ( _Please let me get to see him do that again._ )

"You were an innocent boy." And though it was gall on her tongue, she added, "Like Noah."

"Not exactly like Noah. I doubt he steals your underwear out of the hamper and jacks off into them." While Calvin waited for the statement to sink in, he fingered the first few buttons of her blouse. His eyes never wavered from hers as he undid the top two. The exact moment of realization must have been visible, because he said, "Oh, come on, you really didn't know? Where did you think they all went?"

"No." It held barely enough substance to be called a whisper. She tried again, this time more firmly: "No. I didn't know."

But she did remember the missing underwear. Had chalked it up to some pervert—or a down on her luck female tenant—loitering in the community laundry room of her apartment building. There was one pair, a slightly discolored black cotton bikini, she'd found crumpled in a ball under the sofa while stress-cleaning not long after Calvin had been taken away, when coming home from work was suddenly a quiet, lonely experience. At the time, she threw them away without giving it much thought. Now, it seemed terribly significant, and she wondered how she could have missed something so obvious. It was her job to notice such things, for Christ sake.

When the answer came, it was even more distressing than the question—she hadn't wanted to know. Plain and simple. Calvin was a little boy,  _her_  little boy for a while, and she hadn't wanted to know.

"Well then, I'm sorry you had to find out like this. I'll spare you the details of what I used to do while I watched you sleep." A third button popped loose when he snipped its thread with the razor. It skittered across the room like a tiny blue bug. With the tip of the blade, he nudged Olivia's blouse open, exposing her from neck to cleavage. "Still think you could have saved me?" he asked, trailing a finger along the V shape formed by her bra cups.

"Calvin, stop," Olivia said, hoping that a piece of the old Calvin—who had immediately dropped what he was doing and looked absolutely petrified the few times she'd scolded him—might still be buried somewhere deep down. As odd as it seemed, some of the most heinous serial rapists and killers couldn't stand up to their own mothers.

Unfortunately, he wasn't one of them. He slipped his hand inside her shirt, painfully massaging one of her breasts. "Still think you can help me now, Olivia?"

"Yes, if you'll let me," she lied.

Besides mommy issues, men like this shared another common trait. It wasn't readily apparent to the untrained eye, but there was a certain look they had. Or rather, a non-look, an absence of soul that danced in and out of the shadows like a swift-footed devil avoiding the light. Olivia Benson had stared into the face of evil enough times to recognize him lurking there, waiting, always waiting.

He was there behind the Manhattan Mangler's eyes as the straight razor split the rest of her shirt down the middle, scattering buttons onto the mattress. One landed on her chest, and Calvin flicked it aside before sitting back to enjoy his pristine canvas. She knew from the surviving victims' disclosures that he didn't start carving until after the rape, but when he lowered the blade towards her a second time, she was seized by a fear that surpassed all logical thought.

She began to scream. For help. For mercy. For him to get the fuck off of her.

"No one can hear you," he said, and in spite of the noise she was making, his strange soft voice could be discerned as clearly as in the silence. "I soundproofed this room myself—" He reached over and patted the corrugated foam paneling that covered almost every square inch of the room. (Well, at least she wasn't hallucinating the weird acoustics and wavy black walls that appeared to expand and contract with every shift of the eye.) "—and I've tested it many times. Delia was even louder than you. Nobody ever came for her."

"Go to hell." She tried to infuse as much venom as possible into each word, but she was already losing her voice. The exertion had taken her breath away, and her last attempt to shout, useless as it might be, produced only a weak and broken, "Help."

"That's better. Shhh." Tenderly, he brushed her cheek with the backs of his fingers, wiping away tears she hadn't realized she was crying. And just as his voice seemed to be everywhere at once, so were his hands. She jerked in surprise when one stroked her chest in a slow circular motion.

He was looking through her again as he traced patterns and swirls with his fingertips, creating an invisible calligraphy that seared her skin  
( _No gloves. No mask. The demons you met face to face destroyed you the slowest._ )  
as surely as any razor.

"Vivian used to do this to me for hours after we had sex," he said in a dreamy, reminiscent tone. For the first time, he sounded a million miles away, though he had leaned in extra close to study the minutiae of her face as she processed his comment and recoiled. "Don't worry, that one's not on you. My mother didn't start fucking me until after Grandma and Grandpa gave me the boot. I moved back in with her, if you can call living in a van 'moving in.' Anyway, turns out she didn't care what was between a person's legs, as long as they were supplying her with smack. And I knew where to find the best China white in all of New Jersey. Fourteen was a helluva year."

A hot, acidic sludge churned in Olivia's belly, threatening to erupt at the images he was putting in her head. She swallowed convulsively, forcing down the slick coating at the back of her throat, desperately afraid of aspirating on her own vomit while trapped flat on her back.

Vivian Arliss had been a troubled woman when Olivia knew her, but if Calvin's story was true—and considering his unfathomable hatred of women, Olivia believed it was—then Vivian had truly lost her soul somewhere along the way. Probably at the bottom of a pipe or the tip of a needle.

There for one fleeting moment, Olivia had hoped Vivian was her sister, had felt a connection so strong she was certain they must be related. (She couldn't be Joseph Hollister's only discarded child... could she?) Now, the thought of sharing DNA with a woman who would sleep with her own son made Olivia's skin crawl.

"That's why you carve symbols on their chests," she said at the same moment it occurred to her. "As punishment for the way she touched you."

Calvin's finger paused mid-figure-eight. "Punishment? No, nothing that prosaic. Those 'symbols' are my love letter to you."

"What?"

With a sweep of his fingertip, he pieced the letters together on her chest, sounding out the name: "O-liv-i-a."

So he really had tortured and killed all those poor women just because they looked like her. He'd defiled and defaced their bodies in her goddamned honor. She felt another chink form in the wall that Lowell Harris and William Lewis had hammered away at so diligently. One more solid blow and there would only be pieces of her left to pick up afterwards.

"No," she whispered. "No."

"I haven't decided what yours will say." He smoothed his palm over the lightly freckled skin of which he was so enamored. "My signature, maybe. We've got plenty of time to figure it out."

"No." It was the last weapon left in her arsenal.

"Now, I think it's time you finally returned some of the love and devotion I've shown you all these years. A little tit for tat, so to speak." He hooked an index finger around the small strip of material that served as a bridge between the curved underwires of her bra cups. "You'll want to hold still for this," he said, and with a single, quick jerk, lifted the bra away from her chest and slashed the connective strip in two with his straight razor. He pushed the hollow cups aside, laying her breasts bare to his roving hands and eyes.

"No." Olivia clung to the small, defiant word, repeating it until her voice gave out. When that didn't work, she concentrated on using her body, uncooperative as it might be. She tried to wriggle free of the rope bindings, twisting and turning from the waist, with little regard for the shooting pain in her arms and back or the stipples of blood at her chafed wrists. She dug her heels into the mattress and bucked her hips, attempting to throw him off, but succeeded only in jouncing the bed and her breasts.

Calvin watched the struggle dispassionately, and when Olivia lay still beneath him, panting and sapped of what little strength she had left, he asked, "Finished?"

She didn't look at him. Wouldn't. Whatever he did to the rest of her body, she wouldn't grant him access to her eyes, her mind. The fucker wasn't taking that away from her, no matter how hard he tried.

"Good, I think she's ready. Come here and hold this."

At first, Olivia thought he was speaking to her, or even to himself. Or maybe he was just trying to trick her into making eye contact? But seconds later, a female voice responded, "Finally. None of the others were this much trouble."

From a corner Olivia hadn't been able to make out clearly with her impaired vision, Amelia stood up, put a large pad of paper down on the chair she'd been seated in, and approached the bed. "Almost finished my sketch," she said, wiping her hands on a dirty yellow bandana that dangled from the bib pocket of her overalls.

The little bitch had been there the whole damn time. Watching, listening. Drawing. She had heard every disgusting thing  
( _Lewis_ )  
Calvin said and every whimpering plea  
( _"Me. Do me. Leave the girl alone."_ )  
Olivia made.

And yet she was Olivia's last chance.

"Make him stop this, Amelia. Please." Olivia gazed up imploringly, ready to beg, to cry if necessary. Pride had ceased to be an issue the moment she'd apologized to the demented monster sitting on top of her.

Amelia leaned in close, the loose ruby red strands of her messy top knot swaying inches from Olivia's face. "How many fucking times do I have to tell you? My name is Millie."

With that, she plucked the yellow bandana from its niche and crammed it into Olivia's mouth until no more would fit. "Much better," she said, pushing up her sleeves as if she were about to toil under a car hood or a clogged sink. She took the razor Calvin offered, and stepped around to the head of the bed frame, once again out of view.

The rag tasted as bad as it smelled. Like nail polish remover and a dusty, scorched flavor, possibly charcoal. There was something worse, though; an underlying bitterness that gushed forth like biting down on rotten grapes. Olivia thought it might be fear she was tasting. She wondered how many DNA samples the lab would find on the wadded yellow fabric when this was all over. God, would this ever be over?

She inhaled short, erratic bursts of air through her nostrils  
( _Four days. You survived four days with duct tape over your mouth. The rash burned like fire every time you moved your lips, but it eventually went away. Now, breathe!_ )  
trying to fill her already sluggish lungs. The bandana had absorbed every last drop of moisture from her tongue, and she fought back the urge to cough into it violently, afraid of sucking it farther in, strangling on its rancid folds. If she was going to die today, it would not be because she failed to keep her shit together.

When the thrusting began, rocking the entire bed and her along with it, she focused on the rhythm, timing her slow, steady breaths to each motion.

And when that became too difficult—the pain in her breasts was tremendous as Calvin squeezed them together, penetrating the tight, fleshy crevice in between—she focused on the squeaky bed frame. It reminded her of a mouse.

(She and Noah had just started reading chapter books at bedtime; their current favorite was  _Stuart Little_ , the adventures of a brave little mouse from New York City. They were eight chapters in, and Olivia was considering using the book, with its theme of diversity in families, as a segue for explaining Noah's adoption. She hadn't worked up the courage yet; she kept telling herself it could wait until after the next chapter, then the next. And he would look up at her with those innocent blue eyes: "Just one more? Please, Mama, please!" And she—)

—couldn't bear it. Not while this was happening. She pushed all thoughts of her beautiful boy away, walling them off in her mind, taking comfort in knowing they were safe from the cold, callous place she was in.

On the other side of the wall: nothing. No grating bed frame  
(she'd been wrong, it was a screech, not a squeak; a mouse who knew it was dead the second the trap snapped shut on its tail)  
no glob of saliva between her breasts to facilitate his animalistic rutting  
( _'Rapist to Former Guardian: Thanks for the Mammaries!'_ )  
no straight razor held to her throat by the hand of a girl whose life she'd almost forfeited her own to save.

She counted the pink and white scars that traveled up Amelia's otherwise pale arms—jutting through the bars above—in an oddly artistic crosshatch pattern. Blade: 15, cigarette: 6.  _You've got me beat there, kid_ , she thought.

_For now._

They knew from the ME report that the Mangler women had been burned with a cigarette postmortem. It had puzzled Olivia and her squad that a man who enjoyed inflicting so much pain on live victims waited until they were dead for that final degradation. Now she knew why: the burns were Amelia's signature.

Maybe the girl still had some semblance of a conscience, if she wasn't able to physically torture a living, breathing human being.

As Olivia considered how to use that to her advantage, Calvin came on her chest. He made no sound. But then, neither did she, even when she felt the slimy warmth in the cleft of her breasts and smelled its carnal tang, so close she practically tasted it in the back of her throat.

She wept silently instead, the tears slipping sideways into her ears and into her hair. Calvin lifted an excess corner of bandana and used it to dab away the moisture. "I've dreamed of doing that since I was twelve years old," he murmured, leaning down to kiss her forehead. "Thank you."

*** * * ***

There were four secrets Lieutenant Olivia Margaret Benson would take to her grave. This one might just end up there sooner than the others.


	6. Descent

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope I didn't scare too many people off with the previous chapter. I know it's dark stuff, but I tend to write dark and some of the flashbacks were things I wish the show had explored further, instead of glossing over. Big thanks to you beautiful folks who continue to stick with me and leave comments. On a much sadder note, my beloved dog passed away while I was writing this chapter. I wasn't sure I could finish the fic at all after that, but I did it for him. Chapter 6 & 7 are dedicated to him. (Also decided to post this today in honor of MH Buttaz herself. Happy birthday, Mariska!)

 

* * *

 **For Murphy  
**Mama loves you forever, sweet boy

**. . .**

"Be my friend, hold me  
Wrap me up, unfold me  
I am small, I'm needy  
Warm me up and breathe me"

\- SIA

* * *

 **CHAPTER 6:** Descent

The glasses were exigent circumstances, as far as Amanda was concerned. And if not, it was too late anyway, because she had already jimmied the apartment door open with her pocket knife. Better to ask forgiveness than permission, right?

That very motto had gotten her into some deep shit in the past, but if her gut proved right this time, it was worth the risk.

Just outside the door, discarded against the sill with one arm pointed skyward, the other bent at an unnatural angle, like the splayed legs of a deer carcass along any given stretch of Georgia highway, lay a pair of eyeglasses that she had recognized immediately. She'd seen Olivia Benson's large brown eyes peering at her over those dark square frames at least fifty times a day for the past few years. While the lieutenant did have a tendency to leave the frames sitting on various desks and tables throughout the squad room, there was no way she had accidentally misplaced them on Amelia Cole's doorstep.

Amanda pocketed the glasses with care and eased the door open, scanning the room before entering. "Hello? NYPD," she called by force of habit rather than expectation. She had knocked at least ten times prior to breaking in, and there hadn't been a single peep from inside. "Amelia?"

No answer.

"Liv?"

Again, nothing. And a quick glance around the apartment confirmed what Amanda had already known—empty. No signs of a struggle, but the navy blue coat and black shoulder bag hanging on the hall tree were as familiar to her as the damaged frames she'd discovered not five minutes ago. She fondled the coat sleeve for a moment, her concern increasing tenfold. It wasn't even fifty degrees out today. Earlier, she'd had to scrounge up a sweater from the trunk of her car and slip it on underneath her own jacket just to keep out the chill. Wherever Olivia was, she had to be cold.

That got Amanda moving. She did a quick sweep of her immediate surroundings, taking note of the important details—Olivia's blazer, the black velvet one with satin lapels that Amanda had coveted on several occasions, draped over the back of the sofa; the TV tray laid out with coffee for two, one mug untouched, the other (she rolled her eyes at the corny Texas slogan) almost empty—and skipping over the irrelevant, which was most everything else in the dizzyingly adorned space.

She headed for the ladder to the loft, and the bathroom beyond, determined to do a thorough search, but a voice from the open doorway stopped her dead in her tracks.

"If you don't get out of here in five second, I call the police," it said. It had a thick German accent.

Cautiously, Amanda turned around, palms out at waist level. In the doorway stood a thickset woman whose austere brown bun was shot through with streaks of silver. She cradled an infant in one arm and held a frying pan aloft with the other, as if preparing to brain Amanda from halfway across the room. She looked quite capable of doing so, to be perfectly honest.

When Amanda reached into her jacket, the frying pan cocked back even farther. "Hey. Easy, lady," she said, slipping her hand into an inside pocket and gradually withdrawing her badge. "I am the police."

The woman lowered her weapon with some reluctance, apparently disappointed she wouldn't get to use it. "What are you doing in Millie's apartment?" she asked, suspicion still fixed firmly in place.

"Do you know where she is?" Figuring it best to keep the badge in view, Amanda clipped it to the zipper of her jacket.

"And why should I tell you?"

Amanda bit back the snappy retort that sprang to mind ( _Listen, Brunhilda..._ ) before it could exit her mouth. She doubted her feminine wiles would be beneficial in this situation, either. So she relied on the tried and true method that had gotten her through an entire academic career—preschool through college, and on into officer training—when confronted by a particularly stern and buxom teacher, the kind who usually called her "Miss Rollins" and had a personal vendetta against slender blondes:

She lied her ass off. (And this time she made sure not to jiggle her leg.)

"One of her relatives was seriously injured in a car accident. I've been trying to locate next of kin before it's too late. Time is of the essence right now, ma'am."

After a long, hard gaze that seemed to go on forever, the woman gave a brief nod of understanding. She put the skillet down in the hall and stood up to vigorously pat her baby on the bottom, even though the child wasn't fussing. "How unfortunate. I didn't think she had any other family besides this little one," she said, indicating the bundle in her arms. "Who is the relative?"

Crap.

"An aunt. From Queens," Amanda said hastily, then gestured at the baby and moved in for a closer look. "That's Amelia's daughter?"

" _Ja._  This is Matilda. Tilly, they call her." The woman—who, when examined up-close and sans a fist full of cast iron, resembled Kathy Bates in  _American Horror Story_  (the one with the witches, not the crazy butcher lady)—smiled down at the infant; it was her first facial expression since entering the room.

And for good reason. Matilda was one of the prettiest babies Amanda had ever seen. After Jesse, of course.

"I babysit when her mother is in the studio." There was a mocking quality to the last part, as if the word "studio" should be accompanied by an exaggerated eye roll. "Too often, if you ask me," the woman said, lowering her voice and cupping a hand around the baby's perfect pink shell of an ear.

"She's there right now?"

"I should think so. Took your friend over there nigh on two hours ago. Although, from the looks of her, she had no business walking anywhere but the drunk tank." The woman gave a contemptuous little snort. "New York's finest, indeed."

"Wait. My friend?"

"Don't you  _Polizei_  all know each other? I thought you might be here to get her—"

Amanda waved her hand to speed the explanation along. "She tall?" she asked, palm leveled a couple of inches above her head. "Brown hair, brown eyes?"

"Very pretty,  _ja_." The woman eyed Amanda from top to bottom, smirking. "Like you. Flashed her badge at me, too."

"You said she was acting drunk?"

"I watch from across the hall. She could barely make it down the stairs on her own." Another disapproving comment appeared to be brewing behind the woman's sharp, vulpine eyes, and sure enough, she followed up with, "A bit old to be partying with a young mother like Millie, no?"

Amanda wanted to tell her to stick a skillet in it, but opted for a tight-lipped smile that just as easily could have passed for a grimace. "Where is this studio?"

"That's just what they call it so they don't have to get real jobs."

"Where."

"The warehouse next door. It's been empty since—"

"Thanks. You've been a big help, ma'am." Skirting past the woman, Amanda hurried out into the hall. She paused at the top of the stairs, turning to see her informant disappearing into the adjacent apartment, baby and frying pan held with equal measures of fondness. "Hey, what's your name?"

"You may call me Mrs. Ziegler."

It had been a Mrs. Z who buzzed Amanda into the building after she'd pushed almost every other call button on the intercom panel outside. Thank goodness for meddlesome old ladies. "Mrs. Ziegler, I'm gonna need you to stay in your apartment with Tilly, okay?"

(Meddlesome old ladies also had a tendency of getting in the way. She didn't need to add "involving a civilian" to her growing list of questionable ethics for the day.)

"I intend to, dear. Unless I hear someone else breaking into my neighbor's apartment."

 _Touché._  Amanda shook her head and started down the stairs. She listened for Mrs. Ziegler's door to shut, but it remained open until after the woman called out, "There's an old service entrance to the warehouse through our basement. If you feel like picking more locks."

Seconds later, a slam.

And a few minutes after that, Amanda was in the dank and cluttered basement, a room that couldn't make up its mind what it wanted to be. Some poor soul with unrealistic expectations had tried to convert it into a gym at one point; dusty strength-training equipment lingered in the corners like dinosaur skeletons, trapped for all time in the same position in which they had died. Another tenant, probably a dance student, had erected several mirrors and a barre along one wall. On the opposite wall stood a decrepit sink large enough to bathe Frannie in, and a group of broken-down washers and dryers appeared to be having a twelve-step meeting a few feet away.

It was behind an especially weary-looking Maytag that Amanda found the door to the warehouse. The appliance had been angled just enough to allow access, but not so far as to be conspicuous. Unless you were a cop. Most people probably wouldn't have noticed the fan of dirt swept aside from the threshold, either—a sure sign that the passage had seen recent traffic. The deadbolt, however, was locked firmly in place on the other side of the door.

"Sonofa—" Amanda said, twisting the knob unsuccessfully. Her knife wasn't going to work on this one. But if memory served, she had noticed an old office desk going to seed beside the stairs. She jogged over to it and wrestled the rusty metal drawers open until she hit the jackpot on the bottom left.

Scattered among mildewed papers and rubber bands as brittle as uncooked spaghetti noodles were a handful of large paperclips. Some were a bit gangrenous, but she found a relatively unscathed pair and set to work fashioning one into a tension wrench; the other, she straightened out, then crimped at the end with the foldable pliers on her pocket knife.

If idle hands were the devil's workshop, then the long, sultry summer nights in Loganville, Georgia—pop. 5,000—were the furnace he used for smelting. The hotter it got, the more reckless the dares; the more illegal the hidden talents. During one particular scorcher that lasted the entire month of August, Amanda had learned the arts of hot-rodding, shot-pounding, and lock-picking, each wisdom imparted by a different boyfriend.

(Next time she saw Beau Dixon at a reunion she would have to remember to thank him. Or possibly arrest him, if he still had those lock picking tools.)

After several failed attempts, she heard the tumblers shift as she raked the crimped wire up and out of the keyhole. Holding her breath, she gave the tension wrench an experimental tug and felt the lock turn, the bolt retracting like a turtle into its shell.

Her hand hesitated on the doorknob, and for at least three seconds she was incapable of turning it. The last time she'd entered a residence uninvited, a girl had wound up dead. The image of Esther Labott with a bullet hole in her forehead—put there by Little Sure Shot herself, Det. Rollins—still haunted Amanda's dreams. That, and The Feeling. The Feeling hit you when the body was still warm, when life hadn't quite dwindled from their open eyes, and you half-expected them to sit up and take a breath if you wished it hard enough.

Every night for a month, Amanda had seen Esther rise from the dirty kitchen floor, as frail and mousy as ever, but smiling as she held out her hand for a piece of candy and asked, "For such a time as this?"

The quoted scripture had seemed like a chastisement to Amanda, but now she began to wonder. Maybe it was more of a message that she should keep going. After all, she was the only one here, and Olivia might need her help. She couldn't live with herself if something happened to the lieutenant while she stood around waiting on reinforcements. She wouldn't make that mistake again.

"For such a time as this," she murmured into the silence, then carefully opened the door and stepped through.

 

* * *

 

It took a moment for her eyes to adjust to the warehouse lighting, which consisted of intermittent patches of sun filtering down through square skylights in the ceiling. The space was vast and largely empty, save for the photography equipment and painting supplies that, she supposed, qualified it as a studio rather than what it actually was—an abandoned, rat-infested dump illegally occupied by a couple of starving artists.

Roll down gates covered the row of street-facing windows, the front entrance, and the loading dock, shielding the outside world from looking in, and vice versa. It gave the room a boxy, claustrophobic feel, despite its substantial size, as if the four solid walls might close in at any moment, permanently trapping whoever was inside.

Amanda kept her back to the wall, just in case. She didn't see anyone in the immediate vicinity, but there was an enclosed office on the other side of the room and what looked like a series of makeshift partitions created by bed sheets strung between steel support beams. She made her way over to the latter, constantly scanning the room and keeping a hand near the grip of her holstered weapon.

The first section contained more photography equipment—tripods, extra light stands with umbrella reflectors attached, and a selection of different colored muslin backdrops. She had busted enough underage pornography rings to recognize standard shutterbug gear, although some of this stuff was pretty high-end. Whatever expenses the photographer had spared on location were made up for in the quality of materials he used. The boyfriend (Carl? Cal?) was the photographer, according to Olivia's earlier account. That worried Amanda.

That worried Amanda a lot.

With good reason, as it turned out. When she drew back the bed sheet to peer into the next compartment over, her stomach dropped as if she'd taken a wrong turn and plummeted off Manhattan Bridge, into the East River. Pinned to every square inch of the 150 thread count enclosure were hundreds, if not thousands, of pictures. Each one was of Olivia Benson. Most were candid shots taken from a distance, the subject obviously unaware of her participation. A few were disturbingly close, intimate, like the man behind the camera could reach out and touch her if he desired.

And everything about the wall to wall collage ( _oh no, honey, that's putting it mildly, try full-blown shrine_ ) screamed desire. It hadn't gone up over night. This was the result of an obsession than spanned years, if not decades—some of the photos predated Amanda's transfer to Manhattan SVU. She recognized Elliot Stabler's face from pictures that had once hung in Captain Cragen's office, though she had never met Olivia's notoriously hot-headed ex-partner in person. He didn't feature prominently here, but there were background glimpses, along with a stream of other familiar faces, old and new: Fin, Amaro, Cassidy, Barba, Carisi, Cabot, Stone... and Amanda herself. The ones that sent a cold shiver down her spine, though, were the playground captures of Olivia and Noah.

And Jesse.

"Oh God," she breathed, taking long, purposeful strides directly to the photo of her daughter laughing—that high, tinkling sound was the sweetest Amanda had ever heard—as she received a push on the swings from Olivia.

Amanda remembered the day well. She and the lieutenant had sat talking and sipping coffee for hours on a bench just yards away from where their children played like their lives depended on it. Both kids were fast asleep on their mothers' shoulders, looking like tiny, war-weary soldiers after a battle with ice cream cones, sandboxes and jungle gyms, by the time they parted ways. Jesse had talked nonstop about her boyfriend Noah for a week straight after that play date. Amanda had joked with her boss about getting a head start on planning the wedding.

She tore the picture from the safety pin that held it in place, and stuffed it into her pants pocket. She wanted to do the same with all the others, but it would take too long and they needed to be preserved as evidence. Of stalking, if nothing else.

A meticulously clipped newspaper article was pinned between a shot of Olivia with shoulder-length hair framing her face in subtle curls—a style Amanda recognized because it had given the then-detective a somehow vulnerable quality (or maybe that was just a result of being kidnapped and tortured by William Lewis for four days)—and one of her smiling gently as she leaned in to kiss Ed Tucker. Amanda averted her eyes from that picture, feeling as if she were invading her lieutenant's privacy by even looking at it, and focused on the article instead.

Lo and behold, it was about the second Lewis encounter in the granary, and his crime spree beforehand. It detailed the attack on the Cole family, sparing the underage daughters' privacy but listing the mother and father by name. Thomas and Janice Cole had both been underlined in red grease pencil, and a few sentences later, their youngest child, taken hostage by the escaped prisoner, was surrounded by a swarm of red question marks. Someone had been eager to find out little Amelia Cole's identity.

Before Amanda had time to consider what that meant, she noticed a black box on the floor, partially hidden where the sheet drooped under the weight of all the pictures. It was about the size of a piece of carry-on luggage and looked equally durable. She thought it might be a camera case, but when she flipped up the hasps, thumb tucked inside her sleeve to avoid fingerprints, she discovered more pictures taped under the lid and a cache of Ziploc baggies, each containing what looked like a pair of women's underwear.

She knew a trophy collection when she saw one. Lots of serials stole their victims' panties—the spoils of war, or some such bullshit. But she had a feeling she knew where each and every one of these souvenirs came from. She'd taken a few of the owners' statements, at least from those who were still living, and tried her best to comfort the families of those who were not.

"Good Lord," she muttered, poking at the baggies with the tip of her fingernail. There were more than she expected. At least nine— _If she's number seven, why's she got nine burns here?_  she recalled asking Fin while kneeling over Margo Tóth's body in the Central Park dirt yesterday—and a couple pairs looked like they had belonged to very young women, based on cut and pattern (specifically the zebra print with hot pink lace trim).

She studied the Polaroids taped inside the lid. One was an underexposed shot, the edges almost entirely black, while the subject—Benson, clearly fast asleep—was awash in a milky flare of light from the camera flash. The other showed a young boy with the camera at arm's-length, lens pointed inward, selfie-style, and a woman beaming over his shoulder. Though the faces were blurry, it was obviously Benson and... what had that kid's name been?

Amanda had only met him the once, shortly after her transfer. He came to visit with his grandparents after the mother took guardianship away from Olivia. What little of the backstory Amanda had heard on that one came from the loose lips of John Munch, but she knew it was a sore spot for the other woman. That's why she had never inquired about it from Olivia herself.

Now, Amanda wished she had. Because the longer she stared at the picture, the more convinced she became that it was an omen of things to come:

She was looking at the Manhattan Mangler and his tenth victim.

Sealing the case back up, she got to her feet and quietly unsnapped the thumb break on her holster. She drew her weapon and kept it at the ready, steeling herself before whipping the final sheet aside to reveal a hellish scene. Several, actually. There was more blood than the human body could possibly contain, and the horror was palpable on each woman's face, all of it depicted on canvas in vivid red, orange and black oils. The colors of fire and rage.

Amanda lowered her gun and gaped at the paintings, some of which were displayed on easels, while others were propped against a section of wall that concluded the bedsheet maze. They were very good likenesses; so good, in fact, she could label them by the name of each Mangler victim therein.

But there was something deeply unsettling about the paintings that went beyond the gore or the fact that someone had turned the women's final moments into art. It was their eyes. Their eyes, rolled upward and to the side so mostly the whites showed, were all directed at a single fixed location—a huge, gnarled old tree that had been painted directly onto the concrete wall.

Camouflaged within the tree bark—so well hidden that it gave Amanda a start when she finally noticed it—was a man's face. His eyes were closed, but she got the feeling they could open at any moment. She got the feeling these women had died looking straight into them. When those eyes fell on you, they were all that remained of your entire world.

"—left it upstairs. It'll take me, like, five seconds," said a female voice, as a door opened somewhere in the direction of the office.

Amanda ducked down instinctively, but the jerry-rigged bedding provided plenty of cover and the footsteps were moving away from her position. She chanced a peek out through a gap between the wall and the sheet, and saw a girl with the same color hair as Jesse's beloved Strawberry Shortcake doll. Well, Noah had said Amelia was a redhead now.

Oblivious to the other presence not fifteen feet away, the girl bustled across the room and disappeared down the sloped corridor that led up from the basement next door. Amanda sent up a silent prayer that she'd remembered to lock the deadbolt behind her; it must have worked, because a moment later the door creaked open, then shut again, the bolt clicking soundly in place from the other side.

Treading as noiselessly as possible in her black ankle boots, Amanda slipped out of the macabre gallery she had stumbled upon. She edged past the long row of sheets like a child playing hide and seek behind her mother's clothesline. When she reached the end, she dodged a quick glance around the corner. The door to the office was standing wide open. It had looked dark and empty before, but now she realized there were large foam panels covering the windows. Someone had wanted to block the sound out. Or in.

Amanda held her breath and listened for several seconds, but she could hear nothing inside the room. Amelia had spoken to someone, though, and given all the evidence so far, her accomplice was not to be trifled with.

Cold dread sat heavily in the middle of Amanda's chest the longer she hesitated. She wanted to turn back, to go home to her girls and hug them close until Jesse groaned, "Mama!" like an exasperated teenager and Frannie tried to fulfill her lifelong dream of licking both their faces off. But in spite of her uncertainty about what else might be waiting in that room, Amanda was sure of one thing: Liv needed her.

_For such a time as this._

With the mantra repeating in the back of her mind, she took a step towards the doorway—and immediately froze. From somewhere nearby, loud, cartoonish music broke through the silence, as jarring as a gunshot. It took her a moment to realize the sound was coming from her own jacket. Frantically, she jerked Olivia's cellphone out of her pocket, where it had remained mostly forgotten and at maximum volume—just right for a six-year-old gamer—since she'd left the precinct.

As she fumbled with the volume toggle, a screechy voice began to warble off-key. She recognized it, if only for its absurdity in the present situation and because of the sudden shot of adrenaline that had given her mind absolute clarity. It was Baby Sinclair from the  _Dinosaurs_  series she used to watch during the early '90s  _TGIF_  lineup. (It had been Kim's favorite; Amanda preferred  _Full House_.) The bratty muppet was heralding a call from Carisi with his signature tune:

_"I'm the baby, gotta love me! Big purple eyes, I'm very cuddly..."_

"Shit," Amanda hissed at the screen, finally silencing the obnoxious song. Now was the worst possible timing to find out her boss liked to get cute with ringtones. She clutched the phone to her chest, not moving a muscle as she strained to hear even the slightest sound from inside the office. Other than a faint squeak that might have been a rat or just the building settling, there was nothing.

When the phone vibrated to inform her of a new voicemail, she brought Carisi's name up in Messages and texted him "10-13," the code for an officer in need of assistance. Seconds later, she wasn't surprised to feel her own cellphone vibrating in her back pocket. Leaving it there, she resumed her path towards the doorway.

Once she was within a few feet, a magnetic force seemed to pull her the rest of the way, giving her no choice but to continue. She pressed her back to the outer wall, craning her neck to see inside the room before entering. She could make out some furniture, but none of it looked sturdy enough to hide behind. Still. "NYPD," she announced, her voice sounding twice as loud in the dead silence. "I'm armed."

"Okay, I'm coming in." And after a deep breath, she spun around the doorframe, back to the inner wall this time. She scanned the room with her gun, making sure all four corners were empty. It was a relatively small office, especially with the bed and chair taking up space, and even with the dim lighting she could see there was no one lurking in the shadows.

There was, however, someone in the bed. A faded, paint-splattered blanket had been draped over the entire length of the mattress, but Amanda clearly discerned a human form underneath. She raised her weapon, prepared to order the person to get up. Then she noticed the hands. They were curled limply together against a rod in the headboard, each manicured nail polished a sleek shade of blue-gray known as "gunmetal." That was Olivia's color.

"Liv," Amanda said tentatively, and not getting a response, felt the cold cloak of dread settle onto her shoulders once more. The blanket wasn't moving, no matter how hard she stared at it.

 _Please_ , she thought, reaching out with a trembling hand to peel back one of the frayed corners.  _Please..._

All of the air vacated her lungs at once. She had been socked in the stomach on more occasions than she cared to remember, and the sight before her was not that much different from an angry bookie's fist to the gut: Olivia Benson was dead.

Or at least she looked that way to Amanda, who had never seen her so pale, so drained of all vitality, even after the ordeals with Lewis. Even when Noah had been abducted. Some essential part was missing, the part that made her Lieutenant Benson, the fierce, unrelenting cop that Amanda had come to respect and admire. To consider a friend.

There was blood coming out of her ears and a disgusting yellow rag shoved into her mouth. All thoughts of protocol or preserving the crime scene lost, Amanda pulled the rag free, almost gagging at how much of it unraveled from Olivia's throat. She leaned in close to feel for breath against her cheek, but not even a hint of warmth came from the parted lips.

"Don't do this to me, Liv," she pleaded, tears shimmering in her vision as she pressed two fingers next to Olivia's windpipe, checking for a carotid pulse. Her own heart was beating so hard it would be a miracle if she could feel anything else. But—

There!

Right there! She felt a definite thrumming. It was weak and inconsistent, fading almost as soon as she found it, but it was there.

Pushing through the shock and fear that wanted to swallow her up, she tapped into her determined side—the one that made her a good cop with laser-focus, or like a dog with a bone, depending on who you talked to—and went to work. Benson was not dying on her watch.

As she used her knife to saw through the rope that bound Olivia's wrists, she murmured encouragement to her friend ("Stay with me, Liv," "I've got you, honey"), prayed to a God she wasn't sure she believed in anymore, and assessed the scene as best she could.

Random bits of information presented themselves to her out of context: the blood was only on one side, originating from a cut near the ear, not the ear itself; the entire room was soundproofed, covered floor to ceiling in ugly red and black foam squares that made her feel like a pawn on a checkerboard; the nylon rope was tight enough to leave deep, rash-like grooves in the skin, but so loose around the bed frame that the knot gave with one good tug; other than a pink scratch as slender as a paper cut, there were no indications of slashing to the neck. In fact, most of the blood seemed centered around the cut beside Olivia's ear and a nasty-looking gash under her arm.

But Amanda's optimism that she had arrived before things escalated too far vanished when she pulled the blanket back farther. "Jesus Christ," she whispered, at the sight of Olivia's shredded blouse and bra. They had wilted in on themselves like dying rose petals, exposing the full, shapely curves they were meant to conceal.

Red streaks marred the tender flesh of both breasts, as if they had recently been grasped by rough hands. A dime-sized patch of puckered scar tissue that Amanda instantly recognized as an old cigarette burn was the only blemish to the chest, at least in terms of permanence. (Lewis had marked her, after all.) Fresh semen splotches were still shiny-slick against Olivia's ashen skin.

"Oh, Jesus," Amanda said, her stomach turning at the thought of what else she might have been too late to prevent. She could only hope that the sick bastard responsible for this had stuck to the same MO described by his early victims—an initial discharge on their chest, with the rape taking place much later in the encounter.

She would have to worry about that later, though. Right now she needed to concentrate on opening Olivia's airway. They had always suspected the Mangler began drugging his prey at the same time he'd escalated to murder. (Some even thought the first death was accidental, a bad reaction to the drugs that were simply meant to incapacitate. Amanda didn't believe that for a second. This prick knew exactly what he was doing. He had merely been perfecting his art on the women he let live. The dead were his  _pièce de résistance_.) Best guess, he was using GHB—easy to mix up in a home lab, quick to leave the system, and known to depress breathing. Often to the point of stopping it altogether.

With a hand on Olivia's forehead, the other cupped below her chin, Amanda gently tilted her head back. She pinched Olivia's nose shut and released two breaths into her mouth, watching for her chest to rise and fall. Then, fingers interlocked with both palms down, she began compressions, counting out thirty to the tempo of "Sweet Home Alabama."

"I'm feeling lucky, Mandy," Dean Rollins had always said whenever the Lynyrd Skynyrd tune blared over the racetrack loudspeakers. A Birmingham native, her father had adopted the song as his personal anthem, taking it as a sign to place bets on whichever horse had a name he could relate to his home state. Tuscaloosa and Boo Radley we're particular favorites. One time he'd let Amanda pick—she'd gone with Heart of Dixie, after some prompting—then he paraded her around on his shoulders, telling everyone she was his good luck charm, when Dixie finished in first place.

Here's hoping Mean Dean Rollins' little girl still had the magic touch.

_Two more breaths... Try not to think about the wet spot you just touched... Where the skies are so blue..._

"Come on, Liv," Amanda said between compressions. She began to pant as she started the third round, her arms already burning from the effort to keep up a steady rate.  _Lord, I'm coming home to you..._

"Open your eyes. C'mon."

At the end of the count, she gave Olivia's shoulders a desperate shake. "Take a breath, goddammit!" she practically shouted, before dropping down to provide two more of her own. "You can't leave your kid like this. He needs—"

Olivia gave an abrupt little huff, like the tail-end of a cough. She inhaled a great, whooping breath, then began coughing in earnest until the color returned to her cheeks in hectic pinks and reds. Tears seeped through her closed eyelashes, clinging to them in minuscule droplets when they finally fluttered open. She stared up dazedly for several moments, eyes glassy and unfocused. " 'Manda?" she asked in a crackling voice.

"Yeah." Amanda laughed with relief, and nodded eagerly. "Yeah, it's me. It's Rollins." She took a second to collect herself and let her brain compute that Olivia was now conscious, but the victory celebration would have to wait. They weren't out of the woods yet.

"Hey," she said, brushing away the hair that clung to Olivia's forehead and cheeks in sweaty clumps. She avoided the strands that were stiff and plastered to the skin with blood. The SANE nurse would document that at the hospital. "Can you sit up for me, darlin'? Can you do that?"

"Tired." Olivia's eyes were already drifting shut before she finished the statement.

"I know, but we gotta get you outta here. Come on, let's sit up." Amanda scooped an arm under Olivia's shoulders and hefted her forward into a semi-upright position. The lieutenant sagged against her like a rag doll.

"Ow."

"Sorry, Liv." Amanda stroked her friend's back between the shoulder blades and tried to help her scoot to the edge of the bed. It was no use. Olivia wasn't budging.

"My... my shirt." Olivia reached towards the row of remaining buttons on her tattered blouse, missing it entirely and dropping the hand into her lap instead. "The fuck?"

"We'll get you a different one as soon as we get out of here. You can wear my sweater until then, okay?" Shucking off her jacket, Amanda shrugged out of the beige cardigan and guided Olivia's arms into the sleeves, careful of her raw and painful-looking wrists. It was a slow process, much like dressing Jesse on an especially recalcitrant morning, but Amanda had mastered that long ago. More or less.

The cardigan was a snug fit that gapped slightly between the buttons, all of which she looped into place, but at least it offered some modesty and some warmth. Olivia took advantage of the latter, snuggling into the body heat still trapped within the cable knit. Her head drooped against Amanda's shoulder, long, lank hair shrouding her face.

"Hey. I need you to wake up now, Liv. You can sleep later." Amanda gave her a smart little pat on the cheek—just enough to rouse her so they could get moving. "Let's go."

Gasping like a diver breaking the surface after a deep plunge, Olivia lifted her head and blinked groggily. "No..."

"Yes. It's not safe here."

"No—" Olivia licked her dry, cracked lips and swallowed with visible difficulty. "—ah," she finished. "Is he...?"

Amanda leaned down until she was eye to eye with Olivia, a habit she had picked up from watching the lieutenant herself comforting survivors over the years. It was smart. It established trust, putting you at their level and letting them see your sincerity. "Noah's okay. He's at the precinct with Lucy. I told her to stay there with him. He's safe, Liv."

"They said... they said..." All at once, Olivia's face crumpled up and she began to cry in deep, agonizing sobs that racked her entire body. She collapsed into Amanda's embrace and continued mumbling about "they" and "him."

What few intelligible words Amanda could piece together from the slurred, fragmented sentences troubled her deeply. She could swear the term "sodomy" had been mixed in there with some other nonsense about red velvet cake. Her heart ached at the mournful cries and frightened whimpers that came from her friend's mouth. She had never seen Olivia this emotionally distraught. She knew it was due in large part to the drug, but that didn't account for whatever trauma the woman was currently reliving.

"Shhh," she said, cupping a hand to the back of Olivia's head and smoothing it down the length of her hair. "That's over now, sweetheart. I won't let anybody else hurt you."

As she continued the soothing murmurs, she groped with her free hand until it landed on the cellphone she'd dropped amongst the covers while resuscitating her lieutenant. She pressed the Home button twice and chose the phone icon. Using her thumb to scroll through Favorites, she selected the direct line to dispatch.

When the officer answered, she rattled off her name and call number by rote. She was in the middle of explaining why she had dialed from Lieutenant Benson's number when she felt the unmistakable pressure of a gun muzzle dig into the nape of her neck.

"Give me the phone, Amanda," said a cold voice. Male, but hardly human. "Or else little Jesse's going to grow up with a quadriplegic mommy."


	7. (Don't Fear) The Reaper

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Psst, I'll let you in on a little secret: chapters 6 & 7 were originally one very long chapter, but I wanted to split it in two for reasons (mostly because I'm evil ;). That said, I planned on posting 7 ahead of schedule b/c of that cliffhanger. So here ya go. Thank you for the reviews/kudos and the kind words about my dog. Very much appreciated. Lemme know what you think of Ch 7!

 

* * *

 **For Murphy** ,  
who I couldn't save

**. . .**

"Oh  
You're gonna lose your soul tonight  
You're gonna lose your soul  
You're gonna lose your soul tonight,  
Tonight"

\- DEAD MAN'S BONES

* * *

  **CHAPTER 7:**  (Don't Fear) The Reaper 

She hadn't even heard him enter the room. The doorway she had come through was directly in front of her, so he couldn't have slipped through there unnoticed. Nor could he have emerged from under the bed without alerting her to his presence. It was as if he had materialized out of thin air.

"You want to hug your little girl again, don't you, Detective?" he asked, jabbing the gun painfully into her neck.

"Yes," she choked out, wincing away from the harsh steel. Her hand trembled so badly she almost dropped the phone as she passed it back to him. She heard the beep when he ended the connection. (Hopefully she'd gotten through to someone who had enough brains to follow up on a suspicious call.)

It was astonishing how loud the sound of an iPhone shattering against the floor proved to be. Amanda gasped, for a split second completely convinced the gun had gone off. But she felt Olivia, who had hunched into a ball against her, jerk violently at the sudden noise. And she could still move both arms to tighten her grip around the terrified woman's shoulders.

"So sweet," said the voice, though a sneer was evident behind its false sentiment. "I didn't realize you ladies were so close. Always seems like there's some animosity between the two of you."

"Well, there's not," Amanda said. "And if you actually knew anything about her, you'd know that already." She turned slowly, cautiously, to look at him. At the very same moment their eyes met, she remembered the name that had been on the tip of her tongue since she'd found the Polaroid of him and Olivia. "Right, Calvin?"

Surprise—and dare she hope, a trace of fear?—flickered across his face. Then it was gone. "Very good, Detective. I guess you're more than just a dumb blonde after all."

"I have my moments." From the corner of her eye, she spotted the source of his stealthy entry into the room. Another door stood open on the opposite wall of where she'd been facing. Closed, it had been camouflaged by the soundproofing tiles, appearing as another seamless portion of the checkerboard wall. So, he wasn't some magical teleporting entity. He was just a damn good sneak.

"Too bad you didn't have one sooner. I thought for sure you were going to call me out the second I stepped off that elevator." He raised up on his toes, making a show of peering over her shoulder at Olivia. "Bet your lieutenant wishes you had."

Amanda studied him intently until it clicked: "The pizza guy." She had walked right past the son of a bitch on her way out of the One Six an hour or two ago, tops. No wonder the elevator had smelled more like sweaty cop than pizza when she got on.

"Two for two," he said, soundlessly clapping the hand holding the gun with the one that wasn't. "You've been a royal pain in my ass all day, actually. Sticking your nose where it doesn't belong."

"Story of my life."

"I wasted precious time at your precinct waiting for that skinny little bitch nanny to take the brat home so I could grab him, but you—" Here, the Glock pointed accusingly at her. "—you just had to tell her not to leave. That's time I missed out on with this beauty." Reaching around Amanda, he laid his palm on Olivia's head with all the fondness of a doting father.

Olivia tensed and tried to push him away but didn't have the strength.

"Leave her alone," Amanda said, feeling for her service weapon, which was somewhere behind her on the mattress, cast aside earlier to perform CPR. "You're not getting your hands on her anymore. Or her son."

Calvin waved the gun dismissively at the last part. "The kid was just a shiny new toy for my girlfriend. To shut her up while I play with my shiny new toy." He rubbed Olivia's head, fingers sinking deep into her thick brown hair. He raked through the strands, root to tip, letting the ends drift from his fingers, as gentle as snowfall. Continuing the rather hypnotic motion, he spoke in a dreamy tone: "Do you have any idea how long I've waited to get reacquainted with her, my sweet  _Olea europaea_? To show her how much she means to me?"

 _Ever heard of a greeting card_ , Amanda thought. But it was never a good idea to antagonize the man with the gun, so she bit back the remark. She couldn't, however, sit there listening to him wax on about his love for Olivia, whom he spoke of like an object to be possessed, rather than a person.

"If you really cared, you wouldn't want to see her suffering like this," Amanda said, careful to soften the accusatory edge that tried to creep into her voice. He was way past reasoning with, she knew that; but if she could keep him talking until the gun was in her hand...

"She's not suffering. Are you, Liv? Tell your nosy little detective that you want to be here," he said, trying to urge Olivia's chin up from its hiding spot against her chest.

When she didn't relent, he grabbed a fistful of the hair he had just been caressing and yanked her head back, forcing her to look up at him. "Tell her how much you've enjoyed our reunion so far." He stood over her for a moment, the way a farmer might gaze down upon the lamb he's about to slaughter. Then he leaned in for a kiss. "Tell her how much fun we had—"

Amanda heard her gun before she saw it. Olivia's hand was so shaky that the weapon rattled as she brought it into view, inches from Calvin's approaching face.

"Fuck you," Olivia whispered.

During the next seconds that followed, time sped up and folded in on itself, several things occurring at once: Calvin recoiled from the gun just as Amelia walked into the room, oblivious to the situation and chattering away ("—halfway upstairs before I realized it was in the van—"); Amanda took advantage of the distraction, lunging for Calvin and knocking the pistol from his hand. She lost sight of it as they tussled, but when he shoved her backwards onto the bed, she caught a glimpse of Amelia picking it up. Then stars exploded across her vision, and everything was blinding white light and a high-pitch ringing.

"What the hell's she doing here?" Amelia was asking—a Canon digital camera with an impressive lens in one hand, a police issue Glock 19 in the other—when the room came back into focus.

It took a couple tries and some help from Olivia, now empty-handed, for Amanda to sit up. She touched the thin trickle of blood at her hairline, saw Calvin with the butt of her gun still poised in midair, and realized she'd just been pistol-whipped by her own weapon. Really fucking hard. "Shit," she groaned, clutching her head and Olivia's shoulder, which was keeping her upright.

"I lost my grip," Olivia said apologetically, her eyes awash with a fresh, glimmering layer of tears.

"S'ok," Amanda said, still half-dazed.

Before she could fully recover, Calvin seized the front of her shirt in an iron fist, using it to jerk her off the bed and onto her feet. She wasn't there long, because the next thing she knew, her backside slammed into the wooden chair that sat a few feet from the bed. Something heavy and white flapped to the floor, landing against her shoe.

At first, she wondered why there was a bird in the room, but as she regained her senses, she found herself looking down at a sketch pad. The pages had fanned open as it fell, and staring up at her was a lifelike charcoal rendering of Olivia, her face contorted in abject horror. Christ, what had gone on here before she arrived?

"Tie that one up," she heard Calvin say, and glanced over to see him toss the yellow bandana—the one she had excavated from Olivia's dying throat—at Amelia.

The girl sighed, as if saddled with the dullest of chores, and put aside the camera she had retrieved for God only knew what purpose. She slid the gun into the wide pocket of her smock and rolled the bandana into a long, slender strip as she approached Amanda.

"You really should've left this one alone, Detective." Amelia circled behind the chair and tugged Amanda's arms through the slats in the backrest, binding them at the wrist with a few briskly tied knots. Rounding the other side, she lowered her face to an uncomfortably close distance. "Carl doesn't like it when his plans get interrupted. And neither do I."

Amanda drew back, more out of reflex than fear—the girl wasn't nearly as intimidating as her partner. Had it been a fair fight, she would have laid the bitch out in five seconds flat. "Maybe next time don't stop for a smoke break, then," she said, nose wrinkled at the cigarette smell wafting from Amelia's breath and bag lady outfit.

The slap across the face didn't surprise her in the least, though it did set her ears to ringing again. She gave no other reaction than a subtle shifting of the jaw, which she disguised with a faint smirk.  _That all you got, sweetie?_

Amelia was gearing up for an even bigger wallop, but her tensing muscles deflated inside their tentlike clothes when Calvin spoke: "Don't."

"Did you hear what she said to me?"

"She's right. You reek. All you were supposed to do was get my camera, not stop for one of your emo girl self-harm fixes." Calvin mimed puffing on a cigarette and putting it out on his forearm, complete with a sizzling sound effect. "And she knows who I am, so cut out the Carl crap."

A wounded expression crossed Amelia's features, and she cradled her own forearm to her chest, looking very much a child as she stood there rubbing it and pouting. "What do you care what I do to her, anyway?" she muttered. "You've got your precious Olivia." She enunciated the name, exaggerating each vowel.

Most people lit up when they smiled, their faces settling into pleasant grooves and creases that millions of years of evolution had hard-wired us to find attractive, appealing, safe. Calvin was a whole other animal, one who had skipped that entire primordial process and developed something dark and sinister in its place. His smile was an abomination, and it was currently directed at Olivia.

(Suddenly, Amanda understood the drawing all too well.)

"Yes, she's mine now. And I intend to keep it that way for as long as possible." He grazed Olivia's cheek with his fingers, the lifeless smile never faltering, even when she flinched from his touch. "But that doesn't mean we can't invite Detective Rollins to the party."

And just like that, the dead thing on his face—the thing that sat there baring its teeth like a taxidermy animal carcass, absent all thought or feeling—turned towards Amanda.

"Let her go," Olivia said, her lips trembling almost too much to form the words. She was shivering uncontrollably from head to toe, in fact, and Amanda began to worry she might be going into shock. But even in her weakened state, she was the same old lieutenant: "You have me."

"She needs—" Amanda was cut off by Calvin's voice. He didn't raise it or vary the tone, but somehow it filled every corner of the office, absorbing all other sound in its path, like the very room itself.

"Where's the fun in that?" He chucked Olivia lightly under the chin, then sidled over to pick up the camera that Amelia had left near the open doorway. "Despite my love of tall, sensuous brunettes, I do have a soft spot for skinny blondes," he said, pulling the door shut.

Fiddling with the dial on his camera, he strolled towards the opposite door and closed it as well. "You never met my mother, did you, Detective? Olivia did, though. I'm sure she sees the resemblance. And she knows what a special relationship I had with Vivian." He finished his little trek around the room squarely facing Amanda, his knees practically meeting hers.

"Why don't you tell your detective all about it?" he said over his shoulder. When Olivia didn't answer, he aimed the gun at Amanda's head and glanced back expectantly.

Olivia looked utterly lost, her heavy-lidded eyes blinking in confusion. "I... I don't—"

"Think hard, Lieutenant. Unless you want to see me splatter Rollins' brains against the wall."

"She probably can't remember," Amelia said under her breath, then studied her fingernails when Calvin shot her a look.

"She's right," Amanda ventured, gazing down the barrel of her gun and praying it didn't go off because of her big fat mouth. "GHB fries short term memory. She wasn't even breathing when I found her. You can't expect—"

"They had sex," Olivia said, though it sounded more like she was asking than telling. "He got her drugs. She fucked him."

"Jesus. You make it sound so sleazy. But... yeah, basically." Calvin nodded as if slowly coming around to the idea of incest and buying one's own mother with narcotics. "See?" he said to Amanda, "Our girl's got excellent recall. I bet she remembers all sorts of things that would surprise you. Things she'd never dare tell you about..."

"So, what does your junkie mom have to do with me?" Amanda asked. She didn't like where this was going, but she liked his implications about Olivia even less. The lieutenant was entitled to her privacy, and Amanda would be damned if she'd sit there and listen to some freak get his rocks off by stripping her of anymore dignity than he already had.

"Well, like I said, you remind me a little of her. She was my first, in more ways than one, so I'm feeling all nostalgic."

Amanda stared.  _What the fuck does that mean?_

"And then we've got Liv over here, my heart's desire since I was twelve years old. The first woman I ever fantasized about. I was still baby smooth the first time I rubbed one out looking at her picture." He simulated stroking his crotch with the gun. "Blew my wad all over her white cotton panties. I'd just grabbed whatever was handy, like boys do, you know. But it was as if a switch went off when I pulled them out of the hamper.

"Honestly, if I had to pinpoint the exact moment that led to all this"—With a sweeping gesture, he indicated the room and its inhabitants—"it'd be the instant I came in that bargain pack pair of oh-so-sensible briefs with Hanes Her Way stamped on the waistband."

Complete silence followed the speech, so profound it made the hair on Amanda's arms stand on end. Quiet wasn't easy to come by in this city, and even during those humid summer nights back in Georgia—when time itself seemed to lie down in surrender to the heat—the air had been alive and teeming with sounds of crickets and bullfrogs and the occasional coyote. This silence was a deep well of nothing, and it was almost a relief when Olivia broke it with a soft sob. She finally lost the battle to remain upright on the mattress, curling onto her side and covering her face with both hands.

"Shh," Calvin said, abandoning his post in front of Amanda to take a seat on the bed. He placed the camera aside, gun tucked safely under one leg, and pulled Olivia into his arms, forcing her head down on his shoulder.

Amanda jerked at her restraints, itching to free her fists and pummel his face in. He had no right to touch Olivia. No right at all.

"Hey, shh, it's nothing to cry about. That was one of the best moments of my life. Until now." His fingers glided over the intricate weave of the sweater Olivia was wearing, tracing the patterns, fondling the ribbed edges. He toyed with one of the oversized buttons, dangerously close to her breast.

"Hey, Romeo." Amanda smacked her boot against the cement floor to get his attention. Naturally, he was the only one in the room who didn't jump at the sound. "Finish your story."

Casting a sly glance at Amanda, he lowered his hand to Olivia's lap and began massaging her thigh, steadily creeping higher. "Patience, Detective. That's something my mother never had, either. Not like me and you, right?" He murmured the last part into Olivia's ear—the one not caked with blood—and kissed her temple as she tried to squirm away. "We understand that the wait makes it that much sweeter when we finally get what we want."

His hand slid the last few inches, resting just inside the uppermost curve of thigh, his thumb stroking the crease where Olivia's black pants bunched in her lap. She flinched as if struck, and pried herself from his grasp, backpedaling on the mattress until her spine hit the iron headboard with an audible  _thunk_. If it hurt, she didn't react. She gripped the bar behind her so tightly her knuckles blanched.

"Anyway," he continued, barely acknowledging her revulsion. Picking up the camera, he focused the lens on Olivia and watched her through the digital display on the back. "One thing my mother did get right was her love of beautiful women. She was always painting them, like Amelia there. She even left my father for a woman.

"They were inseparable, Vivian and Sarah. Most of the time it was like I didn't exist. They'd shoot up, forget I was in the room. I saw them going at it a few times. Then later, after my father killed Sarah, and my mom started doing me, I'd bring friends home for her. Guess I never quite got over my little voyeuristic tendencies." Calvin licked his bottom lip, a sensual moan rumbling deep in his throat. "God, what I wouldn't give to have seen you two together."

He snapped Olivia's picture then, filling the small room with a brilliant flash that made her wince and shield her eyes, and left Amanda seeing spots of her own. After blinking them away, she looked up to find the camera pointing at her this time.

"That's where your pretty little friend comes in. You're both going to help me fulfill a fantasy I never thought would come true." The flash went off again, its full intensity momentarily blinding Amanda. But she could still hear him just fine:

"You're going to fuck each other while I watch. And take pictures, of course. Now, we'll have to turn your face away, Detective, no offen—"

"Like hell we are," Amanda snarled, twisting her wrists furiously inside the knotted bandana.

(A couple more yanks against the wooden slats in the chair, and she might be able to slip loose. Then she'd tackle the girl, disarm her, and contend with Calvin by whichever means were necessary. Preferably blowing his head off.)

"You will, or I'll shoot you in the gut so you can bleed out watching what  _I_  do to her," he said, balancing the gun on his palm like he was weighing the options. Taking a firmer grip on the weapon, he pointed it at Olivia. "Don't think I haven't fantasized about the lieutenant and the things she does with her service pistol, too."

"Jesus Christ." A desperate, bloodless sensation spread through Amanda's body, taking all her composure with it. She jerked so hard against the bandana, the chair almost toppled forward.

When that didn't work, she uttered a furious "gahh!" and sent the discarded sketchbook sailing across the room with a vicious kick. "Do something," she said to Amelia, who had started to go after the pad, but took an uncertain step back instead. "This can't be what you want. He doesn't give a shit about you. He's just using you to help with these sick little games of his."

Like a fish on dry land, Amelia opened and closed her mouth several times without producing anything useful. She looked to her partner for assistance, but he was gazing fixedly at Olivia. "Shut up," she said after a moment, "You don't know anything about it. He changed my life. He gave me my daughter."

Amanda could certainly understand feeling beholden to the man who fathered your child—but there was a world of difference between Declan Murphy and Calvin. "Is he the kind of father you want her to grow up with? For Christ sake, Amelia, he rapes and tortures women!"

"I said shut up!" The girl fumbled around in the pocket of her smock, pulling out the gun that had most likely been pilfered from Olivia. Amelia didn't even know how to hold it properly. Probably couldn't hit the broad side of a barn, either.

But Amanda wasn't going to test that theory. She slumped in the chair, temporarily spent from the exertion of trying to escape it.

In spite of the commotion, Calvin and Olivia were still locked in a silent, trancelike exchange. It was almost as if they were the only ones in the room, and when Olivia finally did speak, she adopted the same hushed tone he favored, her voice feather-light but clear, steady, "Where is your mother now, Calvin? What happened to her?"

For a long while he didn't answer. Then, smirking: "I think you already know."

"You killed her, didn't you?"

"She'd been killing herself for years. I just... helped her reach the ultimate goal." He sniffed, twitching his shoulders. "It was good practice. And easy to cover up. No one misses another dead junkie with a needle in her arm."

Amelia turned to listen, letting the gun sag to her side.

"And your grandparents?" Olivia asked, her eyes keen and overbright.

"Judith, no. She checked out before I made it back for my surprise Christmas visit. Larry wasn't nearly as happy to see his grandson as you would think, though. It'd been four long years, and he didn't even invite me in."

"What did you do about it?"

Calvin huddled in like an excited little boy showing off a rare baseball card to his buddies. "I torched the old man. I spend my high school years living out of a van, and he thinks he can just refuse to let me into his big, fancy house? Bullshit. I burnt it down with the cocksucker sound asleep inside."

"You never told me any of that," Amelia said, a wary edge to her voice. "You told me he had a heart attack... like my dad..."

Whatever spell had been cast over the two on the bed remained unbroken. An odd expression—more akin to a facial tic than a smile—touched Olivia's lips, her head tilting at an almost imperceptible angle; Calvin looked near ecstasy, as if he'd pop if she breathed on him too hard.

"Thomas Cole?" she said, eyebrow arched quizzically.

The name hung heavily in the air between them—the lieutenant and the Mangler—but it crash landed at the feet of Thomas Cole's only living daughter.

"What's that supposed to mean?" Amelia demanded, leaning over to block Calvin's view. "What's she talking about?"

"Move." He glowered up at the girl and when that didn't work, he pushed her aside as carelessly as swatting a fly. "Go play with the blonde."

"What did you use—potassium chloride? That can mimic a heart attack." Releasing the bed frame, Olivia flexed her hands a few times to get the blood flowing, then rested them gently in her lap. She turned her gaze towards Amelia. "Your dad was pretty young when he died, wasn't he?"

"Forty-eight," Amelia whispered, doubt and confusion at war on her features. The conflict gradually gave way to horror as she looked to her boyfriend for some sort of denial, and received none. "Calvin, tell her it's not true." And rounding on Olivia: "Lying bitch. Why the fuck would he want to kill my dad?"

Olivia counted the reasons off on her fingers. "Money? To isolate you? Or maybe just for the hell of it."

(It was a dangerous game Benson was playing, but Amanda didn't dare intervene. The lieutenant knew how to handle herself in these situations better than anyone. Still, it was like watching a high-wire act:  _Careful... careful..._ )

"He wouldn't do that to me."

"Are you sure? I'm guessing you got a big inheritance when he died. Right around the time you met Calvin, wasn't it?" Olivia asked, eyes on the man in question. This time the ghost of a smile flitted across her face as she studied him. "Whose idea was it to rent that big apartment with space for a studio nearby? Who paid to have this place soundproofed? Not the kid who spent high school living in a van."

_Careful..._

Tears welled up in Amelia's blue-green eyes, spilling over onto her plump cheeks. She swiped at them with the hand holding the gun. "Cal?"

"Well, damn." Calvin put his camera aside on the mattress, balancing both elbows on his knees as he sat forward at the edge of the bed. He shook his head and gave a long whistle, as if Olivia had just scored a last minute play that won the game.

"I guess they didn't make you lieutenant for no reason," he said, reaching into the front pocket of his dark hoodie. He pulled out something wooden and slender that only revealed itself as a straight razor when he brought forth the blade, examining it in the light. "Think you got me all figured out, don't you?"

_Careful..._

"Oh, sweetheart, I've met dozens like you," Olivia said, her voice low and purring. Not a contented sound, but the rumble that precedes a swipe of needle-sharp claws and fresh blood on the whiskers. "You think any of this is original? It's the same tired story I hear from every crazy asshole—"

( _A strong gust of wind. The funambulist teetered._ )

"Liv," Amanda said sharply.

"—they drag into my squad room. You're a leech, just like Walter Burlock. You can't cut it at life, so you fuck up everyone else's."

"Can't cut it. Interesting choice of words." Calvin looked up from the razor, his face a blank slate, his eyes colorless behind their wire frames. He hardly blinked as he slashed the blade across Olivia's outstretched legs, slicing through twill and skin. The pants provided some resistance, but not enough: dark spots seeped through the black fabric at her shins.

Amanda gasped, first at the scene playing out before her, and then at the buzz from the long forgotten phone that vibrated in her back pocket. The others were too absorbed in their roles—Calvin admiring his work; Olivia gritting her teeth in silence; Amelia crying loudly enough for the both of them—to notice the faint sound, and when she shifted her weight to one side on the wooden seat, the sound disappeared altogether.

"Stop!" she cried, as Calvin brought the razor up, preparing to strike again. He showed no signs of hesitation, but the sudden jostle at his shoulder made him lower the weapon and turn a slow, murderous glare on Amelia.

"What?" he demanded, rage coming off of him in waves. The room was thick with it, and if there had been any uncovered windows, they would have been opaque with steam from the heat he emitted.

Amelia seemed to be the only one unaware of the danger he posed. She poked at his shoulder a second time with the muzzle of her stolen gun. "Did you kill my dad?"

"So what if I did?"

"Oh my God. You did, didn't you?" Drooping forward like a marionette whose strings had gone lax, she clutched her abdomen and sobbed. "How could—  _why?_  He was all I had left. I needed him."

"You need anyone who shows you the least bit of attention. I just made sure that person was me. And look at what we've accomplished because of it."

She gazed around the room as if she'd never seen it or its inhabitants before; she looked at the gun in her hand like she didn't know how it had gotten there.

"Don't make this into a thing, Millie," he said, with what must have passed for a placating tone in his mind. "You've been useful to me. None of them would have fallen for the bait if not for you. Especially Saint Olivia. Remember that?"

Amanda didn't quite get the reference, but Olivia seemed to—she looked up from her hands, pressed against both shins to ease the bleeding, and shook her head. "I just wanted to make sure you were okay, Millie. I'm sorry I didn't do it sooner."

"Do you think he killed Lauren, too?" Amelia asked, in a childish timbre, addressing the lieutenant but turning to her boyfriend for the answer. "My sister?"

"Your big sister went off to tweaker heaven all by herself." He made a sarcastic flitting gesture with his hand. His version of ascending into the ether. "I may have helped her score a couple times, though. Reminded me of my mom. What can I say, old habits die hard. Like meth-heads."

The girl let out a small, indignant shriek and flew at him, arm cocked back to smash the Glock against his skull. But Calvin was the faster draw. He swiped the razor across her abdomen before she could jump back. The sturdy material of her overalls spared her a deeper wound, but she stared down in horror at the bloody nick in the denim, as if he'd disemboweled her.

"You cut me, you son of a bitch!" She retreated a few steps out of his reach, dabbing at the injury with the hem of her smock. "You fucking asshole!"

"I'll do more than that if you don't shut the hell up, you stupid cow."

Another shriek, this time infused with pure hatred, and Amelia was pointing the gun at his head. She held it sideways like the Hollywood interpretation of a gangbanger. If she did manage to fire the thing, her already questionable aim would be made worse by the awkward position. Not to mention the recoil. She could very likely shoot Olivia—seated just a few inches from the target—in the process.

"Wait," Amanda said gently, trying not to spook the girl. "You don't want to do that."

"What the hell do you know about it? He didn't kill your family." Amelia jabbed the gun towards Calvin, who looked only mildly interested at how things were unfolding. He hadn't even bothered raising the gun from his lap in self-defense.

"No. You're right, he didn't. But he did kill a lot of innocent women." Amanda tilted her head towards the bed, indicating Olivia, whose gaze she held steadily while adding, "And he's trying to hurt someone I care about."

"So, what do you care if I shoot him, then? Wouldn't I be doing you a favor?"

( _Yes, absolutely. Do it. I'll help you hide the body._ )

"He deserves to be punished for what he's done, but not like this, Millie. If you kill him now, he won't be held accountable for any of it. And you'll go to jail for murder."

"She's right," Olivia said, though some of the fire from moments ago had waned. She was looking peaked again, the blood on her hands and face twice as red in contrast with her waxy complexion. "You haven't killed anyone yet, Millie. You can still walk away from this."

"Yeah, right. I've done plenty. I helped lure all the ones he killed. I burned them afterwards. And all the stuff I did to you..." Amelia shook her head vigorously and began to pace, eyes on the floor instead of where she was aiming. "You're a fucking lieutenant. And she's a detective. They'll probably give me the needle just for being a— what's it called?"

"An accessory," Calvin said, bored.

"Yeah, that."

"Not if you let us out of here," Amanda put in, careful not to sound too eager. She could see the girl wavering on indecision, but didn't want to jinx it. Maybe all it would take was a little push: "We'll put in a good word for you. Make sure you get to keep custody of Matilda, see her grow up."

Stopping short beside the chair, Amelia looked down at her in confusion. "What?"

Now it was Amanda's turn to slide out onto the tightrope, one strategically placed foot at a time. "She's a beautiful baby girl. You call her Tilly, isn't that right?"

"How do you know that? Calvin, how does she—" Amelia caught herself, making a noise of disgust when she glanced his way. "Who told you my baby's name?"

"Your neighbor, Mrs. Ziegler. I met her and Tilly before I found this place. She's the one who pointed me in the right direction."

 _Don't look down, Detective_ , Amanda thought. Then: "I knew something was off when she said Olivia couldn't walk over here on her own—"

"No one saw you, huh, Millie?" Calvin interjected. "Dumb bitch."

"Shut up!" The girl waved the gun in his general direction, but kept her gaze trained on Amanda. "She told you that? I thought Mrs. Z was my friend..."

Keeping the pole nice and steady, Amanda stepped out a little farther: "She's a good babysitter. I told her to take Tilly to the precinct, just to be safe. I'm sure she's there by now." ( _You're almost on the other side, just look straight ahead..._ ) "If you really want to hold your baby girl again, you need to untie me and give me the gun. I'll arrest him, and we can walk out of here together. We can go see your daughter."

Calvin gave an abrupt, barking laugh. "Nice try, Amanda. There's no way you got that old bat to go anywhere but the exact same bodega she's been to everyday for the past thirty years. She's practically a shut-in up there with  _der Mann_ — Mr. Ziegler's ashes."

Ignoring him, Amanda kept her focus on Amelia, who didn't seem nearly so confident. Toying with a mother's emotions towards her baby girl was almost too cruel, but desperate times  
( _such as this_ )  
called for desperate measures. "Are you willing to take that chance? Your daughter's future depends on your decision, Amelia. Right here, right now."

"You'll really make sure I don't lose her?"

"I promise."

"Both of you?" Amelia asked imploringly of the lieutenant.

Every eye in the room turned to Olivia. She remained silent for a long, agonizing moment, an unreadable expression on her tear-stained face. One elegantly curved cheekbone had darkened from blush pink to a delicate, hazy purple in the short span of time since her brush with death; rivulets of blood, watered down by sweat and tears, stretched from ear to neck on the other side. Mussed hair and blown pupils contributed to her feral appearance, and there was a brief second where she seemed poised to deny the girl's request. To laugh it off as callously as the man seated beside her would have.

But finally, Olivia nodded. "I won't let anything bad happen to that little girl. You have my word."

"And you have my word that none of you are going anywhere," Calvin said, wiping the straight razor off on his jeans. He exhaled on the blade, shined it with his sleeve, and admired its brand new sheen. "Millie, go get some more rope and my tripod. Now."

"No. I— I think we should do what they say. You don't want Tilly growing up in foster care, do you?"

"I told you, she's full of shit. If she sent Ziegler to the cops, where are they? Where's her backup?"

"My phone just rang a minute ago," Amanda blurted, praying the reveal wasn't a mistake.

By now, Fin and Carisi had to have returned to the precinct and followed the bread crumbs—her and Olivia's absence; Lucy and Noah's presence; the call to dispatch; something, anything—she'd left while in pursuit of their boss. They were good cops. Surely they had already tracked the GPS on her cell to pinpoint her location. That call had probably been one of them saying they were on their way.

 _Otherwise you just pissed away your best shot at them finding you, Aman-duh_ , she thought. With a confidence she did not feel, she added, "They'll be here any second."

"Wow. You're really bad at this. I smashed your phone into itty bitty pieces, remember?" Calvin pointed his razor at the floor alongside the bed, indicating the glass shards and spiderweb cracks that had once been an iPhone screen. "Blonde moment, or did I really hit you that hard?"

"That was hers." Amanda jutted her chin towards Olivia. "Mine's in my back pocket."

It was almost worth the risk of her own cellphone getting annihilated—and with it, her and Olivia's chance at rescue—just to wipe that shitty little smirk off his face.

"That's why dumb cops like me do pat downs on our collars," she said. "Never know what someone might be carrying on their person."

His eyes narrowed to slits behind their studious frames, the oval lenses winking puckishly in the light. He looked like an academic bent over an especially troubling textbook. "You had better be lying. Millie, check her pocket."

Amelia hesitated, the gun shuddering in her outstretched grip. Slowly, she tucked it away in her smock and reached around, dislodging the cellphone from between Amanda's backside and the stiff wooden seat. As if aware of its moment in the spotlight, it began to vibrate in Amelia's hand. She squealed in surprise and nearly dropped it.

"Oh my God, it's the scary guy. Fin," she said, holding the phone out for Calvin to read the name emblazoned on the screen. "The sergeant. Oh, shit. Here."

She thrust the device at Amanda, forgetting about the restraints. After a frantic, split-second pause, she disappeared behind the chair and started loosening the knotted bandana.

"What the fuck are you doing?" Calvin demanded, his voice oddly pubescent when it rose above the slithery quiet rasp he'd perfected. He snapped the razor shut and pushed off the bed, planting his slouchy combat boots in a wide stance, arms crossed over his chest, with the barrel of Amanda's pistol snug in the crook of his elbow. "Amelia. Look at me. Look— do you hear me?  _I said look at me, bitch!_  "

Then time went funny again. Amanda felt her hands slip free of the bonds, but it was Calvin himself who became untethered as he watched her shaking the numbness from her fingers. He unleashed a deafening roar, first from his throat and then from the gun, which he fired at Amelia. More screams followed, but whose mouth they issued from, Amanda wasn't sure; possibly her own. The bullet had whizzed right past her head—so close, so dangerously close.

She peered up from the floor—how she'd gotten down there, she couldn't say—expecting to see Amelia lying dead a few feet away. But Calvin was much more proficient with a blade than a gun. He had missed the girl entirely. She stood stock-still in the same position as before the shot, on her face a look of disbelief so fresh it hadn't yet registered horror, over her shoulder a bullet hole so fresh it was probably warm to the touch.

The second shot hit Amelia square in the abdomen. "So red," she observed, of the blood that oozed through the frayed hole in her denim overalls. This time she went down, crumpling like a paper doll in the hands of a careless child. The phone landed beside her on the floor with an abrupt slap, then went dead silent.

An image of Esther, bullet in her brain from the very same gun, floated into Amanda's field of vision. "No," she said, scrambling on her hands and knees to reach the meek, malnourished girl that she had bribed off a train with handfuls of chocolate candy. But when she got there, it wasn't Esther who was staring wide-eyed up at the ceiling, taking harsh, spasmodic gulps of air. (Esther was cold and long-dead in the grave Amanda had helped put her in.)

"Did I get him?" Amelia asked, unclenching a palm from against her stomach, only to find it empty and slick with blood. "Oh."

When she'd removed the pressure, a fresh gout of red soaked her midsection and the floor below. Amanda grabbed the nearest thing—that damned yellow bandana—and held it firmly over the wound. The cursed rag was determined to take at least one soul with it before this nightmare ended.

"What'll it be, Detective?" Calvin asked, using his foot to push aside the chair that must have toppled over when Amanda ducked for cover. He had a clear shot at this range, practically a guaranteed hit, and his sights were trained straight on her. "Will you play along, or would you rather end up like Millie? I hear it's a slow, painful way to—"

"Hey."

While Calvin was delivering the ultimatum, Olivia had been inching her way across the bed, balanced on her knees. Amanda hadn't understood why, until she watched the lieutenant discreetly gathering the strap of his large, heavy-duty camera into her fist.

When Olivia tapped him on the shoulder and spoke the single, casual "hey" that got his attention, she pulled the strap taut and swung. The camera launched off the bed, hurtled in an arc over her shoulder, and smashed into Calvin's head with a crunch that made Amanda grit her teeth. At first she wasn't sure if it was the lens or his skull she heard cracking, but both were still intact after the initial blow. Olivia reared back to deliver another as Calvin staggered drunkenly to one side, the gun slipping from his grasp and clattering at his feet.

Before she could gather enough momentum for the second attack, he retaliated with a backhand to the face that sent her sprawling. She landed on her stomach with a grunt, narrowly escaping a head-on collision with the iron footboard, thanks to Amanda's leather jacket. It was wadded up in the same heap of blanket where she had discarded it when she removed her sweater, and it cushioned Olivia's fall as she plowed into it face-first.

One disaster averted, another immediately took its place: Calvin, shaking away the blood that trickled from his forehead into his eye, reached out and seized Olivia by the hair, yanking her up onto her knees. She gave a choked cry and clawed at his arm as he dragged her backwards toward the edge of the bed.

Amanda went to work quickly, replacing her hands with Amelia's on the once yellow rag, now stained a deep crimson red. She grabbed her cellphone, miraculously unscathed in its black plastic case, and withdrew the gun from the pocket of Amelia's smock.

Clambering to her feet, she turned the Glock on Calvin just in time to see him jerk Olivia onto her feet as well, using her body as a shield. He gripped her opposite wrist tightly, pinning her between him and their joined grasp in an awkward embrace; his other hand snaked around her shoulders, placing the straight razor to one side of her neck. Perfect angle for slicing.

"Let her go, Calvin," Amanda said, slowly edging around the injured girl on the floor. "It's over."

"You don't get to tell me when it's over." He rested his cheek against Olivia's, making sure they were too close together to chance a head shot. "This room, this warehouse—you're in my world here. I'm god in this place, and I say when it's over."

" _Sylvestris deus_ ," Olivia said, her gaze focused straight ahead, but not really seeing. She had something in her palm, plying it subtly with her fingers. Whatever it was required a dexterity hard to achieve with only one hand.

"That's right." Calvin looked nothing short of pleased at his hostage's contribution. He nuzzled into her hair, inhaling deeply, then pressed a lingering kiss to her cheek. "And before long you'll be worshiping me, just like all the others."

"I saw your trophy rooms," Amanda said, keeping him talking while she tried to line up a shot. Every time she moved closer, he moved farther away. "That one with all the paintings is something else. That tree supposed to be you?"

Calvin flashed his unnatural grin and nodded. "Like it? One of Millie's more inspired works. It's a shame things had to turn out like this." He peered over Olivia's shoulder at the girl who was writhing and whimpering in a puddle of blood. The mother of his child. "She had some talent. But I always suspected her loyalty was shaky. Sooner or later she was going to screw up and get me caught, anyway."

Somewhere in the back of her mind, Amanda wondered just how much of an accident that gesso smudge on Margo Tóth's thigh really had been. In the part of her brain focused on taking Calvin out for good, she willed him to turn a few more inches to the right. Instead, he continued his backwards trek to the nearest door, pulling Olivia along with him.

"You plan to kill her all along? Leave your kid without a mom?" Amanda asked, chewing her bottom lip as she waited for an arm, a leg, even just a hand. (It was astonishing how quickly some guys would fold when you blew off their finger.)

"The thought had crossed my mind." When Calvin bumped into the door, he released Olivia's wrist and fumbled blindly with the knob behind him. The latch clicked and the door swung wide, banging on the outer office wall. "And sometimes having a mom is worse. Right, Olivia? Your alky mom didn't do you any favors. Is that why you never had kids of your own? Afraid they'd turn out like Mommy? Or Daddy."

"No," Olivia said, her voice deceptively calm for someone whose hands—both of them, now—were shaking as they unfolded the blade she'd been concealing.

It was the pocket knife Amanda had used to break into the apartment and to cut Olivia free—the one she must have slipped inside her jacket pocket in her haste to perform CPR.  _Clever girl_ , she thought, keeping her eyes locked on the lieutenant's, so she didn't draw attention to the activity below. She waited for the signal, finger on the trigger.  _Just say when, boss._

"I don't blame everything on genetics like you do," Olivia continued, turning the knife over, blade pointed inward. She nearly dropped it when he looped an arm around her waist, forcing her back through the threshold. She caught it by the sharp end, opening a gash in her palm. Blood seeped through her fingers as she resumed a tight grip on the handle. "That's just an excuse psychos use to justify their behavior."

"Well, I guess we know where you fall on the nature versus nurture scale. Too bad Noah won't get to—"

Someone banged on one of the roll down gates that covered the warehouse entrance. It sounded like a roll of thunder in the large, empty building, and Calvin glanced in the direction it came from, caught off guard by the loud noise.

"Listen up in there. This is NYPD," said a voice that, even distorted by bullhorn, was unmistakable as Sergeant Odafin Tutola's, "Open up, or we're coming in."

While Calvin's head was turned, his pressure on the razor easing slightly, Olivia made her move: with her left hand, she grabbed the arm around her shoulder and pushed; with her right, she swung the knife backward, jamming it deeply into his thigh.

( _When._ )

He didn't make a sound. The only indication that he felt anything at all were his eyes. They widened in mild shock as he glanced down at the hilt sticking out of his jeans. Then he grabbed Olivia's sweater, spinning her around to face him, and swiped the straight razor across her throat.

Amanda felt herself pull the trigger. Not once, but three times in rapid succession.  _Pop pop pop!_  It was a risky shoot—her lieutenant was still much too close—but she had gambled on far worse odds in the past. And even if her luck didn't hold out, her aim was always true.

Two dark blossoms sprouted on the front of Calvin's hoodie, a third black dot appearing in his forehead like a small all-seeing eye. For a moment, he stood framed in the doorway, the Manhattan Mangler returning to his lair after a hunt—then his knees buckled. He took Olivia down with him as he dropped. She landed on top of him, and was still.

"Liv," Amanda said, holstering the gun and sprinting to the other woman's side. She dropped to her knees, but couldn't bring herself to turn the body  
( _No! She's not dead, goddamit!_ )  
over. "Liv! Talk to me, please."

The silence stretched on forever, or at least that's how it seemed, until finally, a muffled reply: "I'm okay. He barely cut me." Olivia rolled herself off of the dead man and tried to sit up, but slumped weakly against Amanda instead. "I'm okay."

She most definitely was not okay. Blood flowed in a steady stream from the wound at her neck, seeping into the collar of her buff-colored sweater. No arterial spray and no loss of speech were both good signs; nevertheless, Amanda hoped there were some damn good EMTs waiting outside.

"'Course you are," she said, cradling her friend with one arm and applying slight pressure to her neck with the sleeve of the other. "You just hang in there, darlin'."

Olivia smiled sleepily up at her. "You should've been a sniper," she said. Then her eyes rolled back to the whites and she passed out.

"Fin, get your ass in here," Amanda said the minute he answered his phone. She could already hear ESU working to open the security gates, but she couldn't just sit there waiting patiently with Olivia's head in her lap. All that blood...

"Bring medics."


	8. Deconstructing Olivia

* * *

If you could hold, hold, hold your heart in your hand  
Would no one demand  
To know how you're feeling  
'Cause you're showing it already?  
Take a breath, it's getting heavy in here

\- HEADLIGHTS

* * *

 

**Chapter 8:** Deconstructing Olivia

 

"If you wanted to prove you're hardheaded, you could've saved yourself the trouble," Fin said, sidling up with a packet of animal crackers and a carton of chocolate milk. He handed them both over, sporting his trademark smirk. "We already knew."

Amanda eyed the offering, cocking a single, pale brow. "I have a mild concussion, not a tummy ache at nap time."

"Best I could do on short notice." He shrugged and gave the milk a slow, tantalizing shake. "But, hey, if you don't want it—"

She snatched the crackers from him, tearing open the bag and shamelessly cramming a menagerie of delicious creatures into her mouth. Their hard little limbs jabbed at the roof of her mouth, but she kept chomping. It seemed like days had passed since her hasty meal of chips and iced tea, though in reality, it had probably been no more than three or four hours.

"Damn. And I thought Jaden loved those things." Fin watched in awe as she inhaled the last few misshapen pachyderms and big cats. He unfolded the spout of the milk carton and passed it to her, then put up his hands as if giving her monstrous appetite a wide berth.

"Jayen iff a geniuf," she said, spraying crumbs with every word. She downed the entire half pint in a single long gulp, momentarily flashing back to her college days, when she could captivate a barroom of rowdy, chanting frat boys with her drinking skills. Of course, there had been something a little stronger than Nesquik in those cups.

Honestly, she wouldn't have refused a shot—or five—of whiskey right about now. She crushed the paper carton in her fist and started to draw a sleeve across her mouth. When she spotted the blood mixed in with the plaid, she gave up and used her hand. It was still shaking.

"Seriously, how's your head, Rollins?"

"Fine."

It was a canned response, and they both knew it. She avoided meeting his eye until he reached up and lightly touched her chin, urging it to turn so he could examine the bandage on the other side of her head.

"Hurts like a sumbitch," she admitted, laughing off the tears that sprung suddenly, ridiculously, to her eyes. Her emotions had been all over the place since they whisked a semi-conscious Olivia out of the ambulance, leaving Amanda to trail behind through the hospital corridors like a lost and forlorn pup.

Fin had been the one to find her and make sure she got the gouge on her temple checked by a doctor. She could have diagnosed the concussion herself—what with the sledgehammer pounding ceaselessly in her brain—and the first chance she got, she would be ripping off the gauze strip taped to her forehead like the world's most embarrassing maxi pad. But at least she hadn't needed stitches.

"Getting pistol-whipped by your service weapon'll do that to you," Fin said, with a gentle smile, a hand resting on her shoulder. He gave it a light squeeze.

"Ugh. Don't say it so loud. That's gotta be my worst fuck up so far." Amanda sighed and turned to gaze through the large window behind her. "I'll be lucky if I'm not back in uniform by the end of the week."

"Fat chance. Way I see it, you saved the day. You put the gun down to do CPR, right? Amanda, she'd be dead right now if you hadn't done that." He faced the window as well, pointing at their boss, who lay sleeping in a narrow hospital bed on the other side. "And you got your gun back—well,  _a_  gun. Either way, you took that motherfucker down, and he'll never hurt anyone again. Including Liv."

"Yeah... I guess," she said, picking at an imaginary spot on the reinforced glass pane. "I just wish I'd gotten there sooner. Maybe kept some of that from happening."

_That_  consisted of: multiple rows of white butterfly stitches, which looked more like soldiers than butterflies—they marched in strict military formation across Olivia's upper arm and shins (although one did perch above her ear like a wayward barrette); nasty-looking rope burns and ragged skin on both wrists; a myriad of colorful bruises on her cheeks.

Five sutures had been required to close the wound on her palm from Amanda's knife. The doctor suspected a rotator cuff strain, or possibly a tear—she wouldn't know which until the scans came back—as a result of prolonged hanging by the wrists. (Amanda had almost left the room to punch something when she heard that diagnosis.)

Fortunately, the neck wound was deemed superficial. No damage to the trachea and only a circlet of sterile gauze to prevent further tearing. But Amanda didn't think she'd be able to shake the image of all that blood anytime soon.

The cherry on top of the whole miserable sundae was the oxygen tube. It was just the flimsy, removable kind that looped over your ears and drove you crazy with its annoying little nasal prongs that didn't stay in place, but it was the reason Olivia couldn't go home. They were keeping her overnight for observation because of the GHB's effect on her breathing. Just a precaution, the doctor had assured Amanda. And yet she found herself watching for every rise and fall of Olivia's chest, as if her own life depended on it.

And those were just the visible injuries. There was no telling how far the psychological effects of the experience might stem, or even how much of it Olivia would remember.

_Or claim not to remember_.

Amanda pushed the thought away as soon as it presented itself. She trusted her lieutenant implicitly. If something needed to be told, Olivia Benson would tell it.

"Do you want me to kick your ass?"

Jolted from her reverie by the question, Amanda blinked up at Fin. "What? No..."

"Well, you seem hellbent on doing it yourself, so I thought I'd offer." Confiscating the empty snack wrapper and crushed carton she was still holding, he walked them over to a wastebasket by the nurses' station. On his way back, he resumed the conversation as if he'd never left: "She's alive because of you. Get that through your thick, gun-resistant skull."

"Is that any way to talk to a poor little defenseless woman with a head injury?" she asked, with a thin smile.

Fin chuckled. "Defenseless, my ass. You'll be back knocking heads in a day or two."

"Hardy har."

"Liv's tough as nails, too, y'know. All those bandages and bruises'll be gone in a few days, and she'll be busting our chops back at the precinct like nothing ever happened."

"That's what I'm afraid of," she said absently, eyes tracing the outline of the IV tube that was replenishing Olivia's fluids and discouraging hypotension.

"Huh?"

"I just mean... she's been through a lot. That whole mess with William Lewis. Then Sheila Porter. Now this. Her former sort-of son turned out to be a psychopath who tried to—" Amanda caught herself just in time. She hadn't said anything to Fin or Carisi about the partially unclothed state she'd discovered their boss in. Nor would she.

"—kill her," she finished, then noticed her jiggling leg. She silently cursed Daphne Tyler for pointing out the tell.

"Yeah, it's fucked up. Girl could definitely use a break from the crazy train for a while. Calvin was never hers, though. She took care of him 'cause she's Liv, and that's what she does, but the kid was already damaged goods by the time she got a hold of him."

"Not so sure she's going to see it that way."

"Proly not. But she's smart. She'll figure it out."

Amanda nodded vaguely, still unconvinced. "Hey, did you know him back then?" she asked, unsure why it seemed so important all of a sudden. Perhaps because she had killed him. Calvin Arliss was her number four.

"Met him a couple times. He hung out in the squad room and did his homework when Liv was working over. Normal enough kid." Fin rubbed his goatee, thoughtful for a moment. "'Cept he had this old instant camera he carried around in his backpack. Drove me nuts with it, always creeping up and blinding me with the flash. I told him I'd drop it in the Hudson if he did it again. He avoided me after that."

"You should've dropped him in the Hudson and saved me the trouble," she said, only half joking. She thought about the two Polaroids of Olivia, taped inside the little freak's memory box filled with women's underwear. That damned camera, she decided—that's what she would have taken as a trophy from her latest kill.

( _And from Esther?_ )

"You sure you're feeling okay?" Fin cocked his head and gave her a funny look. "You seem a little... on edge."

_Thinking like a serial killer will do that to you_ , she noted to herself. It would also get her mandatory sessions with a shrink before returning to active duty, if she didn't snap out of it. Right quick, as they'd say back home.

"I'm fine. Just concussed." She unbuttoned the cuffs of her flannel shirt and immediately regretted trying to roll them up. Stiff with dried blood, the sleeves stuck to her skin like glue. "So, how did you guys end up finding us, anyway?" she asked, cringing inwardly as she peeled and folded until the stains were out of sight.

"Well, we got the exact location from the GPS on your phone. Heard from dispatch that you'd made a call from Benson's cell, and TARU traced that to the same location."

"So you brought the whole cavalry?"

"Already knew something was up after we hit Jersey. Found a couple of other victims. One gave us a suspect: Calvin Arliss. I couldn't for the life of me remember where I'd heard that name—"

"Senior moment, sure. Go on."

"Uh-huh," Fin said, laughing at the good-natured ribbing. "I did a database search when we got back to the station. No hits, but I came across his mom, Vivian Arliss. Couldn't forget that human shitstorm."

"Probably didn't hurt that she was a blonde."

"You wish, baby." He winked, forever the epitome of cool. "Didn't take long to figure out who the little bastard was after that. And Carisi had already connected the vics to Benson by that point."

"How so?"

"Those carvings on their chests. The Jersey vics had them, too. Carisi pieced them all together. Guess what they spell?"

Amanda glanced at him, wide-eyed with instant realization. She knew those glyphs like the back of her hand, no photos required. "'Olivia'? Goddamn son of bitch," she muttered, the oath fogging up the window as she breathed it against the glass. She stabbed her fingertip into the patch of mist, leaving behind a single  
(bullet in the brain)  
dot. "Nice work, Sonny."

"Yup, and nice work, Amanda. Nine cigarette burns, ninth victim. You called it before any of this went down."

"Not really, but thanks."

"After that, we knew Liv was in danger. And with both you guys MIA, something had to be up.  _That's_  when I called in the cavalry."

The mist had faded, taking the dot with it. She refocused her gaze on Olivia, still in a deep, almost comatose sleep. Still breathing. "I owe you, Fin. You and Carisi."

"Nah, you woulda done the same for us. But I'll tell him. He went back to the precinct to take Lucy and Noah home. Gonna make sure they're squared away until Liv's released. You want him to check in on Jesse?"

"Yeah, she'd like that." Amanda smiled tiredly, grateful for the suggestion. She missed her little girl so much her bones ached with it. Nothing sounded sweeter than to go home, hug Jesse tight, and forget about the terrible things she had seen today—the terrible things she'd said and done. But she needed to be here when Olivia woke up. She had to be.

"Okay, I'm on it. Now, get back in there and sit down," Fin said, nodding to the chair at the lieutenant's bedside. "Doc said to get plenty of rest. And you look like hell."

"You sure know how to charm a girl."

"I'll order you some real food and have it delivered, how's that?" He backed down the hallway as he spoke, never one to stick around for mushy goodbyes. Or any goodbyes, for that matter. "Pizza?"

Pizza sounded delicious, until she remembered Calvin sneaking around the precinct in his phony uniform, an empty box in his hands. "How about Chinese?" she requested. "You know what I like."

"Yeah, everything. Plus extra egg rolls."

"Bingo."

"Oh—and, Amanda?"

She paused in the doorway to Olivia's room, glancing over her shoulder at the retreating sergeant. "Yeah?"

"Next time, call for backup."

 

* * *

 

Olivia woke from black, dreamless sleep, positive she was being strangled. Her fingers flew to her neck, feeling for the rope looped around it, but discovering something soft and tissuelike instead. Her hand hurt too much to make the necessary shape for picking the soft thing loose. And there was more of the tissue stuff wrapped around her palm. She tried to swallow, only to find that her throat seemed to be stuffed with cotton.

It was like waking up in a spider web, covered head to toe in its gossamer strands, their weightless grasp impossible to escape. She had heard spider silk was stronger than steel, and as she struggled against its airy, evasive bonds, she believed it to be true. You couldn't fight a thing you weren't even able to hold onto.

Consciousness was proving much the same. She felt herself slipping back under, her body begging for more sleep— _the fly lulled by the very venom that liquefied its insides for consumption. And here came the spider, ready for its meal, expelling a stream of glistening silk from the abdomen to wrap its prey. The white gunk hit her on the chest with a liquid splat, oozing between her bare breasts, and—oh God, that smell. Then all at once, the spider was on her, pinning her to the mattress, his knees on either side of her as he—_

This time Olivia jerked awake, the sudden movement lighting a fire in her left shoulder. She winced and attempted to sit forward, but every muscle in her body protested vehemently. Finally, she gave up and relaxed against the bed, trying to make sense of her surroundings. It was a hospital, obviously. But she had no recollection of how she'd gotten there, or how long ago.

Her throat had graduated from cotton to sandpaper, what little saliva she did produce almost too thick and gummy to swallow. She hadn't felt this parched since her four-day excursion with Lewis left her so dehydrated she'd peed dark yellow for an entire day after.

The thought of  _him_  brought with it thoughts of Amelia Cole, and suddenly Olivia remembered why she was in a hospital  
( _iron frame_ )  
bed, wearing a flimsy blue gown. Specifics eluded her, but she knew it had something to do with the girl. Random words and images presented themselves like pieces of a jigsaw puzzle, fresh out of the box and unsorted: baby Matilda, a perfect pink fit in Olivia's arms; 'Don't Mess with Texas!'; a straight razor, its bite worse than its bark;  _Sylvestris deus_ ; a checkerboard room that smelled like semen and gunpowder. And there had been a man... Carl? No, not Carl—

"Calvin," she whispered aloud, staring up at the galaxy of dots in the white ceiling tiles. She could almost connect them, to form a constellation of his face, but every time she got close, he vanished.

Her head hurt badly.

"Hm?"

She dropped her gaze to the armchair beside the bed, where Amanda Rollins was curled into a pretzel-like pose, half asleep. Just looking at her put a kink in Olivia's neck. (Then again, maybe that had already been there.) The blonde appeared to have the same problem, her face as scrunched as her body when she tried to unfurl.

"Dear Lord," she groaned, one eye peering open. She squeezed it shut again, blinded by the fluorescent lighting overhead.

Olivia waited for her to rouse a little more, then said, "Sorry if I woke you." Her voice sounded as though someone had taken a cheese grater to it. She put a hand to her chest in surprise, but quickly pulled it back like she'd been burned.

Both of Amanda's eyes popped open while she was in the middle of a massive stretch and an even more massive yawn. Cutting the latter short, she sat up hurriedly and planted her sock-clad feet on the floor beside her boots. "No, it's okay. I didn't mean to fall asleep. How're you feeling?"

"Confused. Thirsty." Olivia smacked her lips dryly to demonstrate. Even that hurt a little bit. "Like I've been hit by a truck."

"Well, I can help with some of that." Amanda got up and padded over to the partially closed privacy curtain, disappearing behind it for a second. She reappeared wheeling an adjustable table laden with various items, including a plastic water pitcher and a paper cup wrapped in cellophane.

Olivia only had eyes for the water as she watched Amanda fill the cup. She forced herself to sit up, ignoring the intense throbbing in her head, and accepted the drink eagerly. "Thank you," she mumbled into the cup, then drained it dry. When she thrust it out for a refill, Amanda obliged but held up a cautionary hand.

"Maybe sip this one. You don't want to make yourself sick."

"M'kay," Olivia said, not heeding the advice until she choked on a mouthful, sputtering water back into the cup. She was afraid the rest would follow when a series of deep, harsh coughs shook her to the core. Her detective, always quick on the draw, simultaneously patted her on the back and held out the emesis basin that was on the table. Luckily, the pink kidney-shaped dish wasn't necessary.

She took a deep, steadying breath, glad for the warm comfort of Amanda's hand as it stroked her back, soothing out a few residual shudders. It was almost a foreign feeling. Since her mother's death, she'd received very little physical affection from another woman. And even before, there were moments—brief, subtle, but moments nonetheless—when Serena looked like she would rather hug a barbed wire fence than embrace her only daughter. Until now, Olivia hadn't realized how much she missed that touch, with its distinctly feminine mix of tenderness and ferocity.

"Better?" Amanda asked, continuing the circular motion with her palm, as if she sensed its calming effect.

"Mm." Olivia nodded, taking a cautious sip of the water. It went down smoothly, and she closed her eyes, savoring the coolness on her sore throat. "How long have I been here?"

"About five hours."

"Seriously? What time is it?" She glanced at her wrist, but her watch had been removed. In its place was a band of raw skin, imprinted by a crisscross of tiny grooves that looked like teeth marks. She started to panic, convinced she'd been bitten. But there was a matching band on the opposite wrist, and when she viewed them side by side, a word floated up from her subconscious:  _rope_. Not  _teeth_. The pain in her shoulder flared without warning.

Amanda dug into her pants pocket and produced Olivia's watch. "Sorry, they took it off in the ambulance. Didn't want it to get lost. Quarter after seven," she said, glancing at the crystal display before laying it face-up on the table, treating the steel case and black leather strap with great care.

"PM? Oh my God, Noah." Olivia threw aside the thin, itchy blanket that was draped at her waist, and started to swing her legs over the side of the bed. "I have to go—"

"Whoa there, boss lady." Both of Amanda's hands went up, her body blocking the escape route. She guided Olivia gently, but firmly, back against the pillow with a palm on either shoulder. "Noah's fine. He's at home with Lucy. She even invited Jesse and Frannie over for a slumber party. They're having the time of their lives, and your apartment will never be the same."

"Really?" Olivia asked, surprised at her own willingness to surrender. Truth be told, she didn't have the energy to drag herself out of bed, let alone engage in fisticuffs with a detective in prime physical condition and twelve years her junior. Barbie doll looks or not, Rollins was a tough little thing. That Georgia grit made her a force to be reckoned with, even for Olivia's Manhattan moxie.

"Mm-hmm. Carisi stopped in a little while ago and brought these." Amanda rolled the table into position next to the bed, then tapped the papers on top with her fingertip. "That one's from Jesse, obviously. She has my art skills. Bottom's from Noah."

The first piece of paper contained a series of squiggles in red crayon, a few zigzags in green, and an inferno raging in purple along the borders. Had it been a Rorschach test, Olivia would have guessed that Jesse either wanted something large and fluffy (and  _purple_!) for Christmas, or she was sticking to her Southern roots and preaching hellfire and damnation. The little girl was a sweetheart, so it must be the former.

On the second page, a much more coherent drawing had taken shape. It seemed Noah believed his mom fought for justice alongside the likes of Spider-Man, Batman, Captain America, and a green figure who was either the Hulk or Yoda from  _Star Wars_. He had penciled her in among the motley crew, and it was a detail of note that she looked to be leading the pack. A huge heart encompassed the heroes, with an "I" above and a "U" below. In the corner, his full name in block letters: Noah Porter Benson.

( _a love letter to you_ )

Olivia scratched her chest, though it didn't really itch. She set the drawings aside, smiling faintly. They had helped assuage some of her worry. But not all.

She studied her gold lieutenant's shield, which rested against a vase of brightly colored Gerbera daisies on the table. A Krispy Kreme box with a yellow Post-it note stuck to the top—"Hey Lieu, have one or two. Love, Sonny"—stood beside the flowers. Her gun was nowhere in sight.

"Did I... did I shoot someone?" she asked, remembering the sound of gunfire ( _pop pop pop!_ ) and a hot, metallic smell. Her ears were still ringing slightly. She had thought that was just from the migraine.

"No, um, you didn't. I did." Amanda shifted her weight back and forth from one foot to the other. A painful-looking gash marred the smooth skin on her forehead. She'd tried to conceal it behind her long, side-swept bangs, but she kept pushing them nervously behind her ears, offering a glimpse. "I shot Calvin, Liv."

At first, the statement didn't make any sense. The name Calvin Arliss had been at the forefront of Olivia's mind since she woke up, but there was no context. It was an unbidden name from her past, suspended in blank space, like a single word written on blackboard. The rest of the sentence had been erased, leaving behind only chalky white blurs. But now, with Rollins there to fill in the some of the blanks, another part of the sentence appeared:

"It was him. He's the Mangler," Olivia said, more to herself than the detective. Saying it out loud didn't make it any easier to comprehend. "Oh, Jesus. He did do this because of me. Oh my God. Where is he?" She pushed at the table, trying to roll it away and get out of bed. "My son's not safe with him—"

"Liv. Olivia." Once again, Amanda barred the way. She pried Olivia's fingers from around the table ledge and held both hands in her own. "Listen to me. Calvin's dead. He tried to kill you, so I... used necessary force. He's gone, Liv."

"Oh." It slipped out. A breath, a sigh. Olivia brought a hand to her neck, touching the bandage that encircled it. She thought of the four dead women whose throats had been split open like coin purses, their soft, pink contents the shiny tokens left behind by the Mangler. ( _Got any spare change, Mister?_ )

"What about Amel— Millie?" she forced herself to ask, despite being afraid to hear the answer. "Where's she?"

It took Amanda a second to respond. She was either stalling or preparing a lie. The leg was still, so she must be planning to tell the truth—but reluctantly. "Calvin shot her in the stomach. They took her up to surgery, but the bullet did a lot of damage." Her palm resumed the gentle strokes to Olivia's upper back and shoulders, almost as if seeking out comfort itself. "She's in ICU now. It's not looking good."

Olivia stared ahead, unblinking, lost in the fuchsia petals of a particularly vibrant daisy. She reached out to graze her fingertip along its perfect upright stem. "She drugged me, I think. Had to be the coffee."

"Yeah... they tested you when we got here. Found GHB in your system. A lot of it. You, um— you actually OD'd. You weren't breathing when I found you."

When there was no reaction, Amanda went on in an increasingly slow drawl, each word a deliberate choice. "I did CPR. You weren't under very long. Less than a minute, probably. But they want to keep you overnight for observation. Monitor your breathing. That's why they've got you on oxygen... Liv, did you hear me?"

Olivia snapped out of her daze to find herself holding the fuchsia daisy between her thumb and forefingers, twirling it idly below her chin. "You saved my life twice, then," she observed, returning the flower to its bouquet. A single, delicate petal dropped onto the back of her hand. She captured it in her fist, and held on. "I owe you one. Two, actually."

"That's not—"

"The baby. Is she okay?"

"Matilda? Yeah, they brought her in, just to be safe. She got a clean bill of health. ACS is trying to locate a relative to take her if... Anyway, it doesn't look like either of them had much family left."

"Poor Tilly," Olivia murmured, her voice as frail as the petal in her hand. Funny—she hadn't batted an eyelash at the news of her own near demise, but the idea of that sweet little baby girl being shipped off to some stranger flooded her with sadness.

She cleared her throat and blinked away the tears before looking Amanda straight in the eye and asking the question they both knew was coming: "Was I raped?"

The detective's fair skin, already ghostly under the fluorescents, turned a shade lighter. Her pale hair, hanging in loose, mussed waves around her face, added to the effect. She risked total translucence, if not for those sapphire eyes, which never wavered. "I don't think so, but I can't say for sure. When I found you, your blouse was open. There was semen on your chest."

( _"—dreamed of doing that since I was twelve years old."_ )

"But we know from the survivors that that's just his warm-up. He didn't rape them until later. The way he talked, I honestly don't believe he got the chance with you."

Olivia caught herself digging her fingernails into the palm that wasn't bandaged. She unclenched her fist and discovered she'd crushed the petal inside. It had twisted in on itself, leaving a pink stain on her skin. (She wondered what color stain Calvin had left on her soul. Lowell Harris' was the same brown as his mole; William Lewis' was the red of blood and anger and fresh brain matter. Perhaps black, then, for Calvin—it was the only thing she saw when she tried to remember what he'd done to her.)

"SAE kit?" she asked, depositing the shriveled petal on the table. She stroked it a few times, as if that might restore it to health. But it was too far gone.

"They haven't done it yet. I asked them to wait for your consent. I thought that's what you'd want." Amanda tugged at her bottom lip, a nervous habit that usually surfaced in moments of uncertainty or deep concentration. "Prefer," she amended.

"Yeah, it is. Thanks, Rollins." Olivia's own nervous energy manifested in her hands, which would not stop fidgeting. She drummed her fingers against the donut box, fussed with the gauze that encased her entire palm, and picked at some nubs in the blanket covering her lap. She was engrossed in the latter when she added, "You'd think I'd be used to them by now, but I hate the damn things."

The offhanded comment hung heavy in the air for a moment, like the sticky, unbearable humidity before a summer storm. Olivia hadn't even meant to say it, but now that it was out, she couldn't take it back. So she did the next best thing and changed the subject: "How's your head?"

Caught off guard by the switch, Amanda touched her forehead like she'd forgotten about the swollen red notch just below her hairline. "Oh. It's okay. Doesn't really hurt anymore."

Olivia arched an eyebrow.

"Well, not much."

"Calvin?"

"Yeah, he managed to, uh, grab my gun. Clocked me upside the head with it." Amanda downplayed the explanation with a shrug and a smile. "I got my own fancy light show and a pretty MRI to hang on the fridge, so I'd say I walked away with the better end of the deal."

"But you're going to be okay?" Olivia asked anxiously, tears welling up in her eyes again without warning. This time she couldn't keep them at bay—they spilled down her cheeks in heavy droplets, their natural course diverted by the oxygen tube. Some separated and made it under in glistening streaks; others followed the new path, wetting the skin beneath her nose. She swiped at them with minimal success.

Amanda plucked a couple of tissues from the complimentary box on the table. "It's just a mild concussion. Doc prescribed rest, is all. I'll be okay, Liv, I promise," she said, offering the sheets over. "And so will you."

Cheap and stiff, the tissues felt more like wax paper than something to wipe away tears with, but Olivia accepted them gratefully. She dabbed at the moisture until it was mostly under control, nodding in agreement with her detective. "Good. That's good. I'm really glad you're okay, Rollins."

After a moment of watchful silence, Amanda leaned down, putting herself at the same level as Olivia. "Look, I know I don't have to tell you this, but memory is tricky. Fragmented. Some of it might come back after a while, or it might not. If it does, I just want you to know I'm here. You can talk to me."

It was the same speech Olivia had given a thousand times over. A speech for victims who didn't even know what they were victims of. She'd occasionally envied their brains' ability to block out trauma, when her own attacks were so hellaciously vivid despite all attempts to forget. But now she knew for sure—remembering was better than imagining the worst.

She settled for another nod.

"'Cause you said some things that didn't really make sense back there. When I first revived you..." Amanda waited, trying to draw out an answer. Not getting one, she elaborated: "You asked for cake or something, but then I'm pretty sure you mentioned sodomy. And I dunno, it just seemed like you were—"

( _Remembering?_ )

"—trying to tell me something."

Olivia fiddled with the pulse oximeter clipped to her index finger. Luckily, the monitor was over Amanda's shoulder. She avoided glancing that way, knowing it would detect her increased heart rate as she lied. "I have no idea why I said that. It must have been the drugs talking. Apparently I come up with some real doozies when I'm high. You should've been there the time I accidentally inhaled the fumes from a poisonous mushroom."

She paused for a sip of water—deception was thirsty work—and finished the story for the bottom of her empty cup. "I accused a suspect of stabbing Cragen with a pickle. Never thought I'd hear the end of that one. Munch bought me a gallon jar of kosher dills for Christmas that year. Think I still have some left in the back of my cupboard, actually..."

When the detective didn't laugh, Olivia feared she had oversold the story, true or not. But finally, Amanda gestured for the paper cup, refilling it from the water pitcher while Olivia held it out, and said, "Yeah, figured it was probably the G. Remind me to never toke up with you."

"Wow, am I interrupting?" asked a voice from the doorway. "Should I come back around, say, 4:25?"

Olivia glanced up at the woman who had entered the room at a most inopportune point in the conversation, but whose presence was a welcome distraction from the topic. She didn't recognize the pretty brunette, although the stethoscope and white lab coat gave her occupation away.

"I didn't know doctors were allowed to make pot jokes," Amanda said, grinning.

"Only when cops start it first," the doctor replied. Despite her medical garb and offbeat sense of humor, she gave off an air of effortless style as she strolled towards the bed. Her slender frame was tucked into a silky floral blouse and crisp blue slacks that ended in a perfectly tailored line above sleek yellow pumps. It was a look designed to instill confidence and admiration. A woman who knew exactly what she was capable of.

Olivia liked her immediately. She set aside the Dixie cup and took the manicured hand that the doctor proffered in greeting.

"Hi there. I'm Doctor Murphy." Her hazel eyes crinkled at the corners when she flashed a gleaming white smile. A tiny beauty mark just below the mouth punctuated her features like a period at the end of a complete and eloquent sentence. "You probably don't remember me. You were a tad groggy last time we spoke."

"Sorry, no. Lieutenant Benson. Olivia." The name was printed on her hospital wristband and probably all over the patient chart the doctor was holding, but the formality felt strangely comforting. Almost like they were meeting on equal terms, instead of while Olivia sat there unarmed, wearing nothing but non-skid socks and the equivalent of a light blue potato sack.

"No need to apologize, Olivia. I'm just glad to see you alert and hopefully feeling better?" Dr. Murphy cast a playfully sly glance at Amanda, as if the detective might be more forthcoming than the patient. Beautiful and perceptive, then.

"I'm all right. Just tired."

( _And really fucking sore_.)

"Sore," she added out loud.

Amanda nodded along with the assessment. "She's a lot more lucid than when we first got here. I gave her water—is that okay?"

"Of course. Just don't overdo it. I know the cups are ridiculously tiny, but it's better to sip than chug it all at once and see it in reverse." The doctor lifted the stethoscope from around her shoulders and held up the chest-piece. "Mind if I have a listen? Your lungs were a bit apathetic earlier. Just need to see if they perked back up yet."

"Okay." Olivia sat up straight, following Dr. Murphy's instructions on when to take a deep breath, when to hold it, when to let it out. This went on for several moments, the stethoscope traversing her chest and back, heavy as a stone.

She watched the doctor's hands while they were in front, noting the slightly stubby fingers that were an amusing contrast to the skinny minnie they belonged to. When those disappeared behind her, she found her eyes inexplicably drawn to the woman's canary-colored shoes. They were a cheerful accent, but something about the bright hue made Olivia's stomach lurch suddenly. She tasted charcoal and rotten grapes, and she had to bite down ruthlessly on her tongue to keep from upchucking all over the expensive-looking heels.

"—much clearer breath sounds," Dr. Murphy was saying. "Heart's nice and strong, too. You should be good to go tomorrow morning. Home, for more rest, that is." She looped the stethoscope back around her neck, but her satisfied smile changed to concern when she noticed Olivia's wan complexion. "What's wrong, love? You look like you saw a ghost."

It was such an accurate word choice, Olivia almost laughed. Ghosts from her past, whether real or imagined, kept popping up around every corner. She had never felt more haunted than in the past two days, since that fateful encounter with Amelia at the diner.

"I just got a little queasy for a minute there," she said, settling back against the inclined bed. She felt better with something solid behind her.

"Oh yeah, unfortunately that's a common side effect with GHB. It leaves the system pretty quickly, though, so you shouldn't have to deal with that too much longer. In the meantime, I'll get you something for the nausea."

As long as Olivia didn't look at those yellow heels again, she thought she'd be just fine. Nevertheless, she said, "Thank you," and left it at that.

"You were complaining of shoulder pain earlier as well." Dr. Murphy shuffled through the papers on her clipboard, producing one covered in a series of dark squares.

_A picture of the checkerboard room. The red squares were missing, but then, Olivia hadn't noticed those until later. After Calvin had been on top of her. Oh God, she didn't want to see—_

"—no signs of fracture on the x-rays," Dr. Murphy was saying, using her pinky to indicate the faint outline of a shoulder in each of the skeletal images. "But I'd still like to do an ultrasound. If it is your rotator cuff, as I suspect, that might give me a better idea of what's going on in there. Sound good?"

"Um, sure." Still shaken from the flashback, Olivia had only heard the last part of what the doctor said. She forced a smile anyway, putting the memories—or whatever they were—aside for later. She knew all too well that they would be there, waiting, until she picked them back up again.

"Great. Now, do you have any questions for me?" asked Dr. Murphy, hands spread in a come-at-me gesture.

"I don't think so? Well, maybe one." Olivia tapped the Krispy Kreme box. "Are donuts allowed?"

"Hmm, well, I'd prefer to see you eat something with a little more nutrition first. But I'm a firm supporter of dessert after every meal, so you have my blessing."

The doctor winked at Olivia and started towards the exit. Amanda, who had retreated back a few steps during the checkup, reclaimed her spot beside the bed and spoke up before the woman could depart:

"What about the rape kit? She hasn't had it done yet. We were waiting on her consent."

Dr. Murphy paused halfway to the door, executing a turn graceful enough to be called a pirouette. "I can send a SANE nurse down to get started," she said, directing the query to Olivia. "Assuming that is what you want?"

Two sets of eyes, one blue and one hazel, bore into Olivia as the women waited for an answer. She had to say yes, of course. Nothing was more hypocritical than an SVU cop refusing a rape kit. At the very least, it showed a willingness to cooperate, which would speed along any IAB investigations into Calvin's death. And it would help rule out STDs. She'd endured the poking and prodding after being attacked by Harris and Lewis, mostly for appearance's sake, but Arliss might be the first time she wasn't sure what results to expect. God, how she wanted to say no.

"Yes. It is," she replied.

"Okay, I'll let her know," said the doctor, her head at a sympathetic slant. She offered a soft, encouraging smile. "Don't worry, she's fantastic. And so sweet it'd put that entire box of donuts to shame."

After more promises of nausea meds, an ultrasound, and top-notch nurse care, Dr. Murphy bid her goodbyes and left Olivia alone with her detective once again. An awkward silence passed as they both waited for the other to speak.

Amanda broke first: "I hope it's okay I brought up the kit. I didn't mean to overstep, but the more time goes by—"

"It's okay, Rollins. My brain's still kinda foggy, so it's good you were here to remind her." Olivia busied herself with opening the Krispy Kreme box, selecting a chocolate frosted, and sliding the container towards the blonde. She didn't actually feel like eating, but the pastries were a good distraction. "Want one?"

"Nah, I had Chinese a little bit ago. Saved you a couple egg rolls, although I'm not sure how well they're holding up." Amanda pointed to an oyster pail, decorated in red pagodas and cheerful missives ( _Thank you!_  and  _Enjoy!_ ), nestled among the other goodies on the table. "One of the nurses can probably nuke 'em for you, if you want."

"But egg rolls are your favorite."

"Fin ordered extra. And I know you like them, too."

Touched by the thoughtful gesture, Olivia felt a fresh wave of emotion rising to the surface. She nibbled at the donut and concentrated on working the sickly sweet dough between her teeth. It was absurd to cry over egg rolls when news of her former ward's death and her own potential rape had left her completely hollow, unable to produce a single tear. She should be feeling something, but like most of the experience, she came up blank when she tried to access anything connected to it.

"Oh, and I saved you a fortune cookie. Figured you could use some good luck."

Olivia put the donut down on top of the others, glad for an excuse not to eat anymore. "Hey, I'll take it wherever I can get it," she said, scrounging on the table until she found the treat, then tearing the wrapper open with her teeth. She snapped the cookie in half and pulled out the slip of paper inside:

_A short stranger will soon enter your life with blessings to share._  She repeated it out loud for Amanda's benefit, after reading it to herself. "Wait, how tall are you again?" she teased as the detective leaned forward for a look at the lucky numbers.

"Five—" Amanda began, before catching the dig at her stature. She was only a couple inches shorter than Olivia, sometimes less with the right heels, but it was enough to inspire more than a few height jokes from the peanut gallery—otherwise known as the NYPD. "And here I was, trying to be nice. At least you got a decent one. Mine said, 'You are heading in the right direction.'"

"What's wrong with that?" Olivia nibbled a broken piece of fortune cookie and put the rest back inside the cellophane.

" _Heading_  in the right direction," Amanda said, pointing to her gouged forehead. "I think Fin planted that one on purpose, to be honest."

Olivia snickered behind her bandaged hand. "Cheer up, Mandy, we wouldn't pick on you if we didn't like you so much."

"Oh God, don't sing the song."

"What song?"

"That godawful Barry Manilow power ballad from the seventies. That's how it starts. First, somebody calls me Mandy. Then they start singing the song. And then I'm forced to punch their lights out." Amanda gave a matter-of-fact shrug, as if it was her cross to bear, this form of personal vengeance. "And let's be real, I could so take you right now."

"Okay, okay," Olivia said, waving a tissue like a white flag of surrender. "I won't sing the song..."

"Thank you."

"At least not until I'm well enough to kick your ass."

Amanda sighed heavily, but couldn't hold that dimple back for long. She joined in with Olivia's laughter, and they were both still chuckling over friendly banter when a cute little red-haired nurse popped her head into the room, announcing, "Knock, knock," before entering.

She looked young enough to be a candy-striper, but she was pushing an instrument stand that contained, among other things, a small white box, several packaged cotton swabs and combs, a stack of medical forms, and a speculum.

So, they had sent a child to do the dirty work. A fragile-looking ginger child with wide woodland creature eyes, no less. But it got even better when she introduced herself in a syrupy-sweet voice:

"Lieutenant Benson and Detective Rollins, right? I'm Nurse Cinnamon. And yep, that's my real name." She tapped a finger to the photo ID clipped to her pink scrubs; indeed, it read 'Cinnamon Adams, R.N.' "The Cinnamon part—that is—not Nurse. How weird would that be?"

"Very," Olivia said, sobering up quickly as she spotted the series of envelopes that would soon contain pieces of her—plucked, swabbed, and trimmed from the most intimate of places.

(She did crack one last smile when Amanda held a hand up at shoulder height, indicating the girl's petite size. But if the items on that medical tray were considered "blessings," Olivia would gladly pass.)

"Don't worry, Lieutenant," said Nurse Cinnamon, catching Olivia's watchful gaze. She paused with a pair of latex gloves in her hands and tucked them discreetly behind her back. "I'm a lot older than I look, and I'm good at my job. I'll make this as quick and painless as possible."

Rape kits were inevitably long and invasive procedures, but Olivia appreciated the nurse taking the time to address her as a person and not just a crime scene. She gave a nod of assent.

"Now, would you like your friend to stay, or step out for a bit?"

"I've actually got some calls to make," Amanda said, when Olivia turned an apologetic look in her direction. "But I'll be back when you're finished up."

"You don't have to stay. I'll be fine on my own." Olivia frowned as soon as the words left her mouth. "That came out wrong. I just meant you should go home and get some rest, not wait around a hospital all night on my account."

"I'm staying, Liv. I've got no badge until they clear me, my gun's in evidence, and your nanny stole my kid and my dog." Amanda drummed her palms against her thighs in a catchy beat. "I'm practically a country song, and you're stuck with me."

As the detective turned to go, Olivia caught her by the wrist. "Thank you, Amanda," she said, pulling her in for a brief but tight embrace. "For everything. Truly."

"I'll always have your back, Lieutenant."

"Copy that, Detective."


	9. Damaged

* * *

"The most tender place in my heart is for strangers  
I know it's unkind but my own blood is much too dangerous  
Hangin' round the ceiling half the time  
Hangin' round the ceiling half the time"

\- NEKO CASE

* * *

 **CHAPTER 9:**  Damaged

Hospital corridors were sacred places after midnight. You could walk for miles in virtual silence, barely meeting up with fellow travelers. Your feet instinctively adopted a lighter tread, passing rooms veiled like confessionals. And the souls you did happen upon were often bowing their heads, whether in prayer, repose, grief, or labor.

Olivia didn't feel particularly holy, despite her raw, stripped-down attire. She had begged a robe—if a tent-sized periwinkle wrap could be called such—from one of the night shift nurses who hadn't been informed she was a flight risk, at least from the overnight ward. Her heart rate and respiration had returned to normal hours ago, freeing her from the confines of wires and tubes and bed. Now, it was just a matter of waiting. Waiting for morning, waiting for test results, waiting for the shadowy images in the corners of her mind to step into the light.

Waiting wasn't her strong suit.

She hadn't been raped, of that she was certain. There were no signs of forceable penetration or fluids on or near the genitals. He could have worn a condom—he had with the other victims—but Olivia chose to believe Rollins' proposed timetable of events: he'd never made it past the foreplay stage with her. Evidence of that lit up like glow worms on her naked flesh when the UV light had passed over her breasts. For the first time she could remember that day, she'd given into the urge to vomit as those luminescent flecks appeared.

Nurse Cinnamon had kept her word to work quickly and efficiently, but the whole process still took almost three hours. By the time it was finished, Olivia wanted to shed her skin entirely.

During a rebellious phase in high school, she'd befriended the class loner, a greasy-haired boy who stole his mother's cigarettes and kept dead rats in the freezer to feed his ball python, Zoso. Her mother detested snakes, so naturally Olivia had learned every gruesome detail she could about the creature, including its sloughing habits. Her favorite morsel of knowledge with which to torment Serena was that snakes also shed their eye caps. This turned the reptile's eyes a milky blue as it molted, impairing vision and making it prone to aggression.

Olivia knew precisely how Zoso must have felt all those years ago. Nurse Cinnamon's professionalism and empathy were beyond reproach, but the longer she'd stayed in the room, the surlier Olivia had become. People were being too nice to her, handling her with kid gloves—the nurse, Dr. Murphy, Amanda. It was exhausting. She needed to be around someone who didn't care about her well-being. Someone she could strike out at and sink her fangs into.

Someone who wanted her dead.

That's how she found herself wandering the floors of ICU at quarter to one in the morning. The lights were dimmed to a soft, dreamlike haze, and her disposable slippers whispered secrets against the faux marble tiling as she shuffled up to the nurses' station. She must have looked as spectral as she felt, because the plump nurse behind the desk started at the sight of her.

"Good night, child, you got to warn an old gal like me before you sneak up on her," the nurse said, fanning herself as if she might swoon from the scare. "Don't you know it's the witching hour?"

Olivia tried to hide the smile that tugged at her mouth. Somebody needed to lay off the caffeine. Also, no one had called her "child" in at least thirty years. "I'm sorry. There's no bell. And isn't the witching hour three o'clock?"

"Well, I don't know, Miss Smarty Pants, but whatever time it is, looks to me like your buns are supposed to be in bed." Harriet Spencer, R.N.—her name tag came into view as she moseyed closer—surveyed Olivia from tousled head to grip-soled toe. "Or did I miss the memo about letting patients traipse the halls at all hours? Where's your wheelchair?"

"I don't need one." Olivia held up her own credentials, a smug little grin breaking through.

"Why, excuse me,  _Lieutenant_  Smarty Pants," said Nurse Harriet, eyeing the police shield without so much as a flicker of surprise. This was one tough broad; that move usually had them shaking in their boots—or in this case, Crocs. "Fancy badge or not, you can still fall and conk that pretty noodle of yours, and then we'd all be in a heap of trouble."

Oh, boy. Olivia had gone hunting for a challenge, and it looked as though she'd found one: a sassy, gray-haired nurse wearing the same pair of Sally Jessy Raphael glasses she'd probably owned since 1987.

"Really, I'm fine. I'll be discharged in a few hours anyway." Olivia clipped the badge back on the belt of her robe. "I swear, if I fall and break something in the meantime, I won't sue you or the hospital."

"That's what they all say." Nurse Harriet fixed her with a long, hard look, like a stern librarian reprimanding a schoolchild who had forgotten to whisper. "What brings you to my ward, then?"

"I'm here to see a patient. Amelia Cole. She was brought in this afternoon with a gunshot wound to the abdomen."

"Visiting hours are 11AM to 8PM, Lieutenant. Are you family?"

"No, I..."

( _am the reason she got kidnapped by a psychopath who killed her mother and raped her sister, and I'm probably also responsible for her having a baby with the serial killer/rapist who shot her._ )

"...I just really need to see her," Olivia said, her voice and expression soft enough to be called ingratiating. Her fists remained clenched at her sides. "Please. I'm a friend. I've known her since she was a little girl. I need to make sure she's all right."

The stare-down lasted a few moments longer, but finally the nurse must have seen something sincere—and maybe a little desperate—in Olivia's face. She sighed and pointed to the corner room, where a faint mechanical glow lay just beyond the partially open doorway. "Room 703. You're the only visitor she's had, poor thing. Imagine being eighteen and not having a soul to depend on."

 _Lady, if you only knew_ , Olivia thought. But it wasn't worth the time she'd have to spend explaining herself. Besides, she had gotten what she came for. "Thank you," she said, leaning on the desk for support as she turned to go. Perhaps she wasn't quite as steady on her feet as she'd claimed. The room suddenly felt a million miles away.

"Hold on now, sugar." Rounding the desk, Nurse Harriet swooped in to take Olivia by the arm, guiding her gently forward. "Mind you, I'm only doing this because that poor little girl should know someone cares about her. And because I can tell you'll be a thorn in my side if I don't."

She patted Olivia's hand, taking some of the sting out of the words, and added, "But you can't stay long, you hear? Miss Cole needs to rest, and you look like you've been through the wringer yourself. I'll give you twenty minutes, then I'm coming in to get you. With a wheelchair."

Olivia didn't have the energy to argue, nor did she want to. Nurse Harriet's tough love was a nice switch from the careful way everyone else approached her, as if she were a wounded animal. "Twenty minutes," she agreed, holding onto the door jamb for a moment and gathering a deep breath into her lungs just because she could.

The room was dark, except for the unearthly red and blue light coming from the monitors around the bed, and a low-watt bulb above the headboard, no brighter than a book light. She considered flipping on the overheads, but decided against the harsh glare that would break the drowsy spell she'd drifted in on.

Unsure of why exactly, she paused to shut the door behind her. It latched in place with a resounding  _click_.

( _Look away, Amelia._ )

She stood with her back against the closed door, unable to force her feet into action, yet drawn to the bed with an almost hungry compulsion. An internal tug of war kept her frozen in place, until Amelia suddenly coughed in her sleep. It was a feeble sound—that of a sickly child kept home from school—and it made Olivia go to her like an anxious mother.

If the girl hadn't just stirred, Olivia would have thought she was already dead. Even in the dull lamplight from the headboard, which illuminated the crown of her head like a dirty halo, she was abnormally pale and clammy-looking. Her hair, once striking and perfectly cultivated to her bohemian style, now hung in stringy raspberry strands across the white pillow. She seemed deflated somehow, as if the hole in her stomach had released enough air and fluid to physically diminish her. She looked every bit the child she still was.

Olivia hated her. It came on quickly and without a clear point of origin—seconds ago she had no feelings one way or the other towards the girl—but raged with an intensity she hadn't experienced since beating William Lewis half to death with the metal rod. She had risked everything for this girl. She'd told the world she was a liar and put her entire career on the line; she'd delivered herself into the hands of the monster who nearly destroyed her, body and soul; she'd fucking volunteered to be raped so Amelia Cole wouldn't have to go through the degradation. And how did the little bitch repay her? By feeding her to another monster.

But not without taking a few bites for herself.

Leaning down till their faces were inches apart, Olivia whispered, "I should smother you with that fucking pillow. See how you like not being able to breathe."

Blips from the monitors were Amelia's only response. She lay there, waxen and still, oblivious to the hostility that seethed above her.

"Or maybe shove something nasty in your mouth and let you choke on it. I'm sure there's a filthy rag around here somewhere. I saw a janitor trolley by one of the bathrooms on my way up—how about I go find a nice, juicy toilet sponge to stuff down your throat?"

Olivia brought her lips close to the girl's ear. "Yeah, I remember what you did to me, you two-faced back-stabbing cunt. You lied to me. You drugged me. Tied me up, put things in my mouth. Held a fucking razor to my throat. I think you even rubbed off on me like a panting, rutting dog at some point.

"You're just as bad as he is. Worse, maybe. At least he didn't pretend to be my friend first. At least he didn't use his child as bait. You know, I was actually worried about you? Jesus. I felt guilty that I hadn't kept in touch. The truth was, I didn't want to see you. You brought back too many memories. I knew that every time I saw your face, I'd feel his hands all over me. His cock pressed against my ass. I was going to stand there and let him put it in me, for Christ's sake. For you, Millie. All for you.

"I'd smell his blood on me. His brains. Don't tell me you've forgotten that smell. It took me weeks to get rid of it, and I still can't eat oysters anymore. The coppery taste, the squishy texture. I wasn't all that fond of them to begin with, but it would've been nice not to have discovered their similarity to the insides of Lewis' head while I was on a date. I spent the rest of the night puking my guts out, and I couldn't even explain why to the guy I was with.

"But then, I never could talk to men about that sort of thing. Cassidy tried to get me to open up about what happened that first time with Lewis, and I just shut him down. I never told him... well, there were a lot of things I never told him. I guess I wanted to protect him, as strange as that sounds. He screwed whores—once while I sat their listening with my partner—and God knows what else, and I still felt the need to preserve his innocence."

Olivia laughed aloud into the darkness. "What is it with me and this need to rescue everyone? I don't know why I even bother. They either wind up like you, or they desert me in the end. Elliot left me. He was maybe the one person in all the world who I could tell this stuff to, and he just walked away. Never even checked in on me after the Lewis nightmare. Hell, he's never even met my son...

"That's a lie, though. That I would say any of this to him. I never told him what happened to me in the basement with Lowell Harris. He asked once, and I played it off as nothing. I thought he'd push a little more, but he just let it go. I guess he wanted to respect my space, or whatever. I wonder if he would've done the same if it'd been Kathy or one of his girls on the floor of that basement? You think? No, you're right, he would've torn Harris apart. He would've—"

A sharp pain shot up Olivia's forearm and she realized she was squeezing the safety rail of the bed so tightly she'd popped a stitch. Gazing indifferently at the fresh blood that seeped into the bandage on her palm, she continued:

"It doesn't matter what he would've done. He's not here. And I damn sure don't need him or anyone else to validate what I've been through. I was doing just fine on my own, you know. But here you and Calvin come along to dredge it all back up again. And now I'm not even sure of what I do remember. Like, is it a memory of him on top of me, shoving his cock into my tits, or is that just something I know happened because they told me so?"

With the pad of her index finger, she reached out and swept an errant hair off Amelia's forehead. A dab of blood escaped the gauze wrapped around her hand, dripping onto the girl's cheek like a tiny red kiss. Olivia scooped it away with the same fingertip and placed it on her tongue. It was bitter and evocative.

"You're probably the only one who really knows what happened to me. How's that for irony? I guess you know more about me than just about anyone. Rollins told me about all the stuff you and Calvin had back in your studio—the pictures and newspaper clippings and everything. You've been studying me for a long time, it sounds like. Finding out what makes me tick. Did he tell you about my rapist father and alcoholic mother? No wonder I'm so fucked up, right? Well, that's not even the half of it.

"You want to hear some things you couldn't possibly know about me, because I've never told anyone else before? I'm sure you do, being the Olivia Benson groupie that you are. Okay, so here goes: when I was ten years old, I watched my mother give a blowjob to a complete stranger. She slapped me across the face when I interrupted her. It was the first time she ever hit me, and the first time I found out what sex smelled like.

"Several years ago, I went undercover at this women's prison. One of the CO's—that's a correctional officer—he was raping inmates. He took me down to his disgusting little rape room and beat the hell out of me. I almost got away, but he cornered me and forced his dick in my mouth. So, you can see why I have issues with people shoving things into my mouth, can you not?

"Then there was the first time with Lewis. It was when we were in the beach house that last day. I had to pee so bad I thought I would explode, so he took me into the bathroom. But of course he didn't leave. I had to go with him watching like I was a puppy he was housebreaking. And before he pulled up my pants, he stuck his finger inside me and licked it off. 'Better than red velvet,' he said... Still can't touch the stuff.

"And you already know about the other, since you were there to watch it happen. The kid I once thought of like a son, using my body for his own sick pleasure. A receptacle for his come. Guess I should be grateful he only made it as far as my tits. At least, as far as I know. But you could tell me if it went any further than that. Did it, Millie?" She put a hand on the girl's shoulder, giving it the slightest shake. "Millie."

When there was no response, Olivia slid her palm into the curve where neck met shoulder, and tightened her grip. Her forefingers dug into the C7 vertebra, the most prominent of bones at the base of the neck. In front, she traced her thumb along the short, ridged track of windpipe, identifying the cartilage—both thyroid and cricoid—underneath, and ending at the jugular notch.

She knew exactly where to press and for how long. Did she have enough power to break the hyoid bone? Typically, it took a man's strength to pull that off—occasionally a woman's, if the victim was a small child—but Olivia was physically fit and capable of extreme force when pushed. How else would she have managed to crack Lewis' skull when it was a struggle just to remain conscious? To remain sane?

(Maybe she had failed at that last part, after all.)

"Now you know all my secrets," she whispered, and brought her bandaged hand up to join the other. She bent down and kissed Amelia on the forehead. "They can burn in Hell with you."

"Mama?"

Though scratchy and weak, the voice startled Olivia as much as a scream. She gasped sharply, snatching her hands back from the girl's neck. A smear of blood was the only evidence that could prove they had been there at all.

"Mama," Amelia repeated, her eyes huge and glassy. They seemed to be staring right through Olivia, whose skin prickled with goosebumps. She had the sudden urge to glance over her shoulder and see if Janice Cole really was standing behind her, but then Amelia reached for her, grabbing the arm that hung limply at her side.

"I am not your mother," Olivia said, shaking free from the loose grip. She hugged both arms to her waist, keeping them just beyond the girl's grasp. "She's... not here."

"I missed you, Mama." Amelia broke into a wide, delighted smile, tears streaming freely down her cheeks. She took no notice of the tubes that were sustaining her, conducting fluids in and out, and delivering the pain medication that made her shredded gut bearable. Straining against them, she continued reaching out, like a toddler who wants to be held. "Why did you go away for such a long time?"

"Stop it."

"Daddy's sad all the time and Lauren won't play with me anymore. Please, Mama—"

"Don't call me that. I am not—" Olivia gritted out, her teeth clenched so tightly she thought they might shatter. Her voice gave out from the strain of holding back the tears, which came anyway, and she could only mouth the rest: "—your mother."

"Are you mad at me? I'm sorry I was bad. I tried to be a good girl like you wanted, but I was so lonely after you... you..." Amelia blinked rapidly, her face twisting in pain and confusion. She still hadn't lowered her arms, even when she asked doubtfully, "Olivia?"

A nod was the most Olivia could manage as she stood with a hand over her mouth, unsure whether she was covering up a sob, a scream, or a dry heave. (Her stomach had never settled enough for more than that one bite apiece of donut and fortune cookie hours ago.) Whatever it was abated after several deep breaths through her nose, but the tears wouldn't stop no matter how many times she wiped them away with the cuff of her robe.

"Where am I?"

"The hospital," Olivia said, sniffling. "You got shot."

"I got shot?" Amelia tried to sit up, but made it no further than lifting her head from the pillow it rested on. She clutched her stomach and moaned. "Who shot me?"

Every bit of hatred and murderous rage had begun to filter away the moment Olivia started to cry, as if each shed teardrop carried with it a tincture of the poison that had been coursing through her veins. All that remained was a dried husk.

She very much wanted to sleep.

"Calvin," she said, too tired for mincing words. "He's dead."

Perhaps it was shock from the injury, but Amelia didn't seem particularly upset. Indeed, when she did find the response she wanted, it was simply: "Good."

"Why?" Olivia realized she was still hugging herself tightly. Releasing the tension in her arms, she let them fall to her sides. White-hot pinpricks traveled from her bruised wrists up to her shoulder blades, where they transformed into full-size fireplace pokers, red tips piercing deep into muscle. Strained rotator cuff had been the final diagnosis, but it felt more like a limb being rent from her body. "Why did you do this, Millie?" she asked, needing an answer in spite of the pain and exhaustion.

That was the reason she had dragged herself out of bed and up six floors in an elevator in the middle of the night, she realized—not to kill, but to ask the most elusive question of all:  _why?_

"I don't know. I'm sorry. He said he needed my help. Couldn't do it without me." Amelia paused to cough dryly into her hand. "I didn't have anyone else. And the longer I played along, the harder it was to stop. I'm so sorry, Mommy."

"I'm not—"

"Am I going to die?" Amelia asked tearfully, spotting the IV in her arm and the machines that loomed at her bedside like solemn figures in a religious ceremony. An exorcism of the demon Arliss. She began to claw at the medical tape that held the IV tubing in place. "I don't want to die. Tilly needs me. I can't leave her like everyone left me."

"Millie, hey. Amelia." Olivia had no desire to comfort someone who'd shown zero compassion to her when the tables were turned, but she covered the girl's hand with her own, unable to stand by and watch her injure herself. Amelia had done plenty of that already. (Olivia could feel the scars trailing up the girl's arm. Somehow she was certain if she turned both over and counted, there would be a total of twenty-one.) "You're not going to die. They did surgery and removed the bullet. It's a good sign that you pulled through."

 _It means you can recover enough to stand trial and go to prison for a very, very long time_ , she added in her head.

"No, you don't understand. My family doesn't make it through stuff like this. We've been cursed ever since... since... that guy killed my mom."

"Lewis?"

Amelia nodded restlessly. Fine beads of perspiration were forming near her hairline. "He cursed us. You cursed us. Now I'm gonna die and Millie's not gonna have a mommy."

"Millie? You mean Tilly." Olivia put her disdain aside long enough to press a palm to the girl's forehead. It was slick with sweat and hot to the touch. "I think I better get the nurse in here. You're burning—"

"Promise you'll take her," Amelia said, grabbing Olivia's wrist with surprising strength, considering the state she was in.

Olivia tried to ease out of the grip, but it only tightened more, her already sore wrist throbbing under the pressure. "What?"

"I want you to take Tilly when I'm gone. She'll need a good mom."

"Millie, you're not thinking clearly. I can't do that. Besides, you hate me. I haven't forgotten that painting in your loft."

Truth be told, she had forgotten it until the moment she brought it up, but the hostility and derision that comprised its subtext had never left her thoughts. She'd known something was wrong as soon as she saw that awful mural. If only she had trusted her instincts.

"Forget all that stuff I said," Amelia implored, holding the back of Olivia's hand to her cheek. "Please. The painting and all of it. I did it to make Carl... Calvin happy. I don't hate you, not really. You're a good mom. A good person. I know you'd take care of her. Please."

Olivia didn't participate in the caress, but she didn't attempt to pull away, either. When she spoke, her brusque tone had softened at the edges: "That's not how it works. I couldn't just take her, even if I wanted to."

"Why not? You took Noah."

"That was different. I went through a lot to adopt my son. It takes a really long time. There's a process. They wouldn't just hand Tilly over to me."

"So? You could do that for her, too. The process. She'd be worth it." Amelia's urgent expression turned to one of apprehension. Her bottom lip had begun to tremble—along with the rest of her body—and she thrust it out in a childish pout. "Unless you don't want her because she's my and Calvin's daughter."

"That's not— I didn't mean—" Olivia sighed, frustrated that she had let herself get sucked into a hypothetical conversation. It wasn't fair to Matilda, who was a real live baby, not an old piece of furniture to be pawned off on the first taker; and it wasn't fair to Olivia, who had felt an immediate bond with the little girl from the moment she held her. She hadn't forgotten that for a second. "I would never blame a child for her parents' mistakes, believe me. But the courts would most likely hold my history with both of you against me. I'm sorry, it's just not possible, Millie."

"But you'd... y-you'd love her if they did let you have her?" Amelia gazed up pleadingly, her cold hands still clinging to Olivia's like a lifeline. "You'd make sure she h-had... had a good life?"

The last of Olivia's resolve slipped away. She could never forgive Amelia, but she could be an advocate for Matilda. God knew the child needed it, now that her mother would probably be locked up for most of her childhood. "Yes," she said, "I'd love her like she was my own."

"Okay. Thank you." Amelia closed her eyes and smiled. Then her grip loosened, allowing Olivia's hand to slip free. Her face went slack as it drifted towards the pillow, lips parting to emit a fine trickle of saliva.

Olivia watched the girl drifting off to sleep and realized she had nothing more to say to her. It wasn't exactly closure—nothing Amelia said could ever change what had happened—but at least the inexplicable pull that had brought her to this room in search of answers was gone.

"Goodbye," she whispered, for the sake of finality.

As she turned to leave, one of the monitors bleated in distress, its digital display blinking frantically. The blood pressure numbers took a sudden, nasty plunge, while heart rate spiked into the triple digits. Olivia had ridden in the back of enough ambulances with trauma patients to know it was not a good sign. She rushed to the door and threw it open in time to hear Nurse Harriet announcing a code blue in 703 over the PA system.

Within moments, a swarm of medical personnel had descended on the room, flooding it with light and sound, and pushing Olivia out into the hall. She must have looked forlorn, standing there in robe and slippers, trying to catch a glimpse of the action inside, because Nurse Harriet appeared and looped an arm around her waist.

"Your friend is in good hands, honey," said the nurse, leading her away.

"She's not my friend. Not anymore."

"Oh? You were whistling a different tune when you wanted to get in there to see her." Nurse Harriet clucked her tongue and steered Olivia to a wheelchair beside the front desk. "Tell me then, if she's not your friend anymore, what is she, Lieutenant?"

Olivia thought for a moment, then recited a phrase from another lifetime: "An agent of change, nailed to the trajectory of my life."


	10. Drunk

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Ok, guys, we're down to the next to last chapter. (There's an epilogue, actually, but it's pretty short so I'm going to include it with Ch 11.) Although I'm sad it's getting close to the end, I've had so much fun posting this fic and reading your reviews. I can't thank you enough for the lovely comments/kudos! Also, I know not everyone's going to like some of the choices I made regarding Liv's recovery in this fic—I'm just not convinced she would be ready to completely open up to Amanda yet. Not after so many years of burying her secrets. HOWEVER. We all know Amanda doesn't give up that easy, and I've got some ideas, so stay tuned. :)))

 

* * *

"And I'm damned if I do and I'm damned if I don't  
So here's to drinks in the dark at the end of my road  
And I'm ready to suffer and I'm ready to hope  
It's a shot in the dark and right at my throat"

\- FLORENCE + THE MACHINE

* * *

 **Chapter 10:**  Drunk

Though Olivia Benson loved dogs as much as the next person, she had never owned one. Her mother had been allergic, and most of her adulthood had been devoted to the job, leaving very little time or energy for a four-legged friend. Tonight, however, she was getting a crash course in the joys of pet ownership.

For instance, she'd learned that you did not "share" a bed with a dog—they allotted you a small corner to do with as you wished, while themselves occupying the majority of a queen-size mattress. Sneaking into the kitchen for a midnight glass of Merlot also became significantly more difficult with fifty pounds of fur and slobber following behind you, whapping its tail against the wall.

Pausing at the end of the hall, she peered around the corner into the darkened living room. She couldn't make out much in the sliver of light from her cracked bedroom doorway, but the pale outline of a blonde head was definitely visible against the couch armrest. She'd started to backtrack towards the kitchen archway when a yelp from below nearly stopped her heart.

"Oh, shit," she hissed, jerking her heel off the paw it had landed on. She reached down into the darkness, until her hand found a fuzzy head and floppy ears, giving both an apologetic scratch. "Sorry, Fran."

Frannie Mae, always eager to forgive and even more eager to lick, slathered her tongue all over Olivia's palm, halfway up her arm, and down the other side. Pausing to sniff the raw skin on that wrist, she gave it a small, experimental lick.

"Um, thank you?" Olivia whispered, patting the dog's wiggly rump. She wiped her arm off on the leg of her pajama bottoms, then tiptoed into the kitchen.

A Ninja Turtle nightlight was plugged into the socket above the breakfast bar, where Noah could easily flip it on and off if he woke up thirsty at night. Or if Mommy did the same. She pressed the switch, flooding the room with green light from Donatello's reptilian head. Misjudging its brightness, she took an overconfident step and kicked the water dish that had been left out for Frannie. The stainless steel bowl moved just enough to send a tidal wave splashing across the flagstone tiles, but not enough to keep her toes from crunching into its solid base.

"Son of a—" Olivia balanced on one foot, clutching the other with the hand not steadying her against the bar. "Mmmf," she finished, rubbing the pain away.

On the plus side, she wouldn't need to mop for a while, because Frannie was currently lapping every last drop of water off the floor as if she hadn't tasted the stuff in years.

"It's a good thing you didn't become a ninja," said a slightly twangy voice in the living room. It was followed by a lamp switching on to reveal Amanda Rollins, squinty-eyed and sleep-disheveled, peering over the back of the couch. "You'd suck at it."

"I'd rock the catsuit, though," Olivia replied, turning on the light above the sink. No need to fumble around in the dark, now that she'd been caught. Such were the trials of an open kitchen in a small apartment.

"True."

Olivia smiled at the compliment as she tore a paper towel from the roll and used it to dry the bottom of her bare feet. She only winced a little at the pull in her left shoulder. "Sorry I woke you. I told you you should've taken the bed."

"And make you sleep on the couch after you just got out of the hospital? I don't think so. Besides, I'm the one who brought my entire three-ring circus into your home." Amanda looked pointedly at Frannie—the dog had joined her on the couch, wet jowls and all—then scrunched the pittie's face between both hands and kissed her soundly on the forehead. "I wasn't really asleep anyway, just dozing."

"Same here." Olivia lifted one of the horizontally mounted cabinet drawers above the sink and selected two wine glasses. With the stems dangling between her fingers, she turned to cock an eyebrow in the blonde's direction.

Amanda pulled a ruminative expression, then shrugged her consent. As in: sure, what the hell.

 _Attagirl_ , Olivia thought, bringing down an unopened bottle of Pahlmeyer from the wine rack atop the fridge. It was a pricier label—eighty-five bucks a pop—and she'd been saving it for a special occasion. But what could be more special than escaping the clutches of your former foster child turned serial killer and his demented girlfriend who wanted you to raise their lovechild? That had to be worth an upscale vintage.

Crystal in one hand, wine bottle and a corkscrew from the silverware drawer in the other, she settled in beside Frannie on the couch. The dog studied every movement with rapt curiosity as Olivia uncorked and poured the wine, handing a glass over to Amanda. After a thorough sniffing of the cork and the screw, the neck of the bottle, the brims of both glasses and the hands holding them, Frannie flumped down between the women with a heavy sigh.

"Sorry, baby girl," Amanda said, stroking the dog's back. "It's not for puppers. Just tired mommies."

"Cheers to that." Olivia raised her glass to the remark, swirled its contents, then drank deeply. She savored the heady burst of fruit on her tongue, the hint of wild berries mixed with red grape. And it went down like velvet. Expensive, yes—and worth every damn penny.

Amanda appeared to be having a similar experience, humming her approval as she sampled the ruddy drink. "Normally I'm more of a beer and hot wings kinda girl, but shit, that's good," she said, reaching for the bottle on the coffee table and examining the label.

"Mm-hmm."

"Hey, should you be drinking?"

Olivia gazed over the top of her glass as she took another long sip. "Why not?" she asked—a bit more sharply than intended—when she lowered it from her lips.

"I just mean with the pain meds and all. You're not really supposed to mix them with alcohol." Sheepishly, Amanda returned the bottle to its coaster and focused on nursing her own wine during the awkward silence that followed.

"Sorry. I didn't mean to snap." Olivia swirled her depleted drink again, letting the fragrant red waves hypnotize her for a moment. "Guess being raised by a drunk made me touchy on the subject."

"Makes sense."

"Anyway, I haven't had any meds since this morning at the hospital. I didn't even fill the prescription. Extra strength Tylenol will do."

"What? Liv, I know you're a badass, but come on—"

"You and I both know the statistics on painkiller addiction, Amanda. How many mothers have we talked to who got hooked on oxy after just one scrip? How many pros?"

"Okay, first of all, you are, like, the least at risk for becoming a prostitute of anyone I've ever met."

"I dunno, I've been told I'm pretty convincing when I go undercover," Olivia said, feigning skepticism.

"And second—" Amanda emphatically held up two fingers, pretending she hadn't heard that last comment. "You are all about moderation. You obviously know how much you can handle..."

Each word came slower than the last as she watched Olivia pour herself a refill. They exchanged a glance over the glugging liquid, then burst out laughing in unison. Frannie's ears perked up at the sound, but she didn't lift her head, opting to roll her eyes from one human to the other before closing them again, unimpressed by the well-timed humor.

Olivia clamped a hand across her mouth, pointing to Noah's bedroom door, which was cracked ( _AJAR!_ ) just enough to satisfy the children inside. Lucy's sleepover solution had proved a rousing success—none of the adults had been able to separate Noah and Jesse from the other's side since. Tears, tantrums, and a few toys were thrown during negotiations, until the frazzled mothers reached an agreement: the kids win, moms forfeit.

So, another night of camping out at Casa de Benson it was, complete with sleeping bags on the floor and a tent made of bed sheets and clothespins. Amanda had generously offered to host the overnight at her apartment, but Olivia made up an excuse about Noah having nightmares when he slept away from home. Truth be told, she couldn't bear to have him out of her sight. And the thought of spending the night alone in her own apartment—something she hadn't done since making the mistake of letting Noah spend a night at Grandma Sheila's—was frightening.

Amanda must have sensed as much, because here she was, sacked out on the couch with her dog and an empty glass of Merlot, God bless her. Olivia had an urge to hug the blonde right then and there, but she settled for petting Frannie instead. The dog ate it up, rolling onto her back for some belly rubs.

"Seriously, though," Amanda said when their laughter died down, "how's your shoulder?"

"It's okay."

Pouring herself a second glass, Amanda shot a dubious look in Olivia's direction. She raised her pale brows and took a sip, waiting for the real answer.

"Hurts. A lot." Olivia rubbed the offending spot, rolling her neck at the same time. The injury made her entire body feel out of place, as if she'd been disassembled and put back together incorrectly. Physical therapy was going to be a bitch.

"That why you can't sleep?" Amanda asked casually, glass poised at her lips. A sidelong glance spoiled the subtlety.

"Partly. That, and I slept most of yesterday, so I'm kind of over the whole sleep thing. At least for a while."

"Well, I don't know about you, but I can't shut my brain off. Keep thinking about everything that happened. It's a lot to take in..."

"Mm-hmm."

Getting nowhere with hints, Amanda placed her hand over Olivia's as it absently stroked Frannie's belly in repetitive circles. "How much of it do you remember, Liv?" she asked softly.

Olivia took a long pull at the wine, as if she could avoid the topic altogether if her mouth was full. She let the liquid trickle into her throat, little by little, until the sensation of something dry and awful tasting on her tongue made her swallow convulsively. It burned going down. "Just bits and pieces. And most of that's a blur. I remember hanging by my wrists and Amelia talking to me... I don't know what about."

It was only a partial lie. She couldn't actually recall specifics about the conversation, just that Amelia had gotten off during it. But that detail needn't be divulged.

"And I remember being tied to the bed. Not what he— what Calvin did to me on it, but the bed itself. The frame was iron like... well, it was iron, and it squeaked." Olivia trailed off, eyes glazing over in thought. "It's so strange. I keep trying to picture his face, but every time he's either twelve years old or he's William Fucking Lewis."

"Jesus." Amanda let the oath linger in the air for a moment. She tapped her fingernails against the side of her glass several times, opened her mouth to speak, closed it again.

"Say it, Rollins."

"I, um, saw the scar on your chest. When I first found you, and your, um— your shirt was torn. You never told me Lewis burned you. I mean, I guess we all assumed, since we found the cigarette butts and the pan on the stove at your apartment, but... yeah."

"Well, it's good to know my unit speculates about my life-altering trauma behind my back. Did you guys place bets too? Fifty bucks per burn." A humorless laugh escaped Olivia's lips. She cut it short abruptly when it occurred to her that she sounded exactly like her mother—bitter, self-pitying, and well on her way to being sloshed. "A hundred if he used the keys," she mumbled into her glass, tilting it until everything else disappeared behind a dome of red-tinted crystal.

(That was one way of looking at the world through rose-colored glasses, she supposed.)

"Come on, you know that's not what I meant. We were just really worried. We all care about you. I wanted to rip that fucking asshole apart with my bare hands after what he did to you."

"I know. Being a bitch is just how I cope." Quirking a smile, Olivia sat forward and put her glass on the coffee table. Then she leaned sideways, lifting the hem of her raglan t-shirt while pulling down the waistband of her fleece pj bottoms to reveal a glimpse of hip. Just under the curve of satin bikini briefs was the snake-shaped brand Lewis had bestowed upon her. "That's from a wire hanger. He got bored while I was unconscious, decided to give me a little incentive to come around. The cigarette hurt worse, though. I was wide awake for that one."

Amanda stared at the scar, with a pained expression. Tentatively, she reached across Frannie and traced it with her fingertip, as if memorizing a key piece of evidence. She often did the same thing in the morgue, her face inches away from the corpse she was studying. Probably a holdover from her days as a forensic science major.

More of a mystery to Olivia was why she herself allowed it to happen. Until now, Ed Tucker was the only person she'd let near the scars, and that had only been during moments of passion, when all that she craved in the world were his firm hands, his warm mouth, on her body. She'd always pushed Brian's hands away when he got too close—or worse yet, when he tried to kiss the scars, like they were booboos he could magically erase. But something about Amanda's innocently curious touch felt unobtrusive, almost soothing.

It might have had a little something to do with the alcohol coursing through her bloodstream. She righted her pajamas and scooped up the wine glass, emptying it in a single draft.

Following suit, Amanda drained her own glass and put it out for another. As the liquid unfurled into the bowl, she queried, "Did Lewis—or whoever—do anything else you maybe wanna talk about?"

Ever since the elusive response Olivia had given at the hospital the day before, she'd been waiting for this question to arise once again. Her detective was nothing if not persistent. She poured her third drink slowly, contemplating an answer.

For the first time in a good long while, she was tempted to just have out with it. To lay bare every ugly, shameful secret she'd tucked away since the age of ten, when she'd learned that sometimes darkness offered more comfort than the light. Then she thought of her late night confession to Amelia—the girl with whom she had shared so many secrets. The girl for whom there was only darkness now:

Shortly after 1AM, Amelia Cole had died of sepsis, taking with her every one of Olivia's worst memories, including the ones that would never be recovered. They belonged to the dead now: Amelia, Calvin, Serena, Lewis, even Lowell Harris, who hadn't fared well in prison when he wasn't the one doing the attacking. Why disturb a bunch of old ghosts?

As the glass reached half-full, Olivia made up her mind. "He didn't rape me, Amanda. Neither did anyone else, though not for lack of trying." She set the bottle aside and leaned back into the couch, propping her feet on the coffee table. "But you'll be the first person I tell if anyone ever succeeds."

It was a cheap shot and unnecessarily cruel, considering Amanda's history with sexual assault. Olivia wanted to blame it on the wine, but that was another one of her mother's favorite excuses. She turned to the blonde with an apologetic look and reached over Frannie to squeeze her hand. "I'm sorry. Forget I said that, okay? I guess alcoholism isn't the only topic that makes me lash out."

"I get it. Takes a while to tear those walls down once you've spent so much time building them up," Amanda said knowingly. She let the weight of her meaning sink in before putting on a faint smirk. "'Sides, I've dealt with a lot bigger bitches than you."

Olivia gave a snort of laughter that made the pit bull beside her sit up and stare. She patted Frannie's head until the dog plopped it into her lap, basking in the attention. "Was there something stuffed in my mouth when you found me?" she asked suddenly, the question forming on her tongue before her brain had caught up.

"Yeah, there was. A bandana. You remember that?"

"Kind of? I mostly remember that it tasted horrible." Olivia grazed her fingers over her parted lips. She exhaled onto them, as if reassuring herself she still had the ability to do so. "And it was so hard to breathe... I think he was sitting on top of me. I know he used the razor, but I think Millie had it for a while too. I remember looking up at her arms. She had all these scars from self-harming."

Amanda nodded. "I saw them when they were loading her onto the ambulance. I still can't believe he just shot her like that. Well, okay, yes I can, but damn. What a waste."

"She asked me to take custody of her baby," Olivia said, voice muffled by the glass as she brought it up for a mouthful. She pursed her lips around the wine, watching to gauge her friend's reaction.

Stunned, to say the least—blue eyes saucer-wide, Amanda practically did a spit take. She wiped at the dribble of red wine that escaped the corner of her mouth, swallowing hastily. "What? When?"

"Last night when I went to visit her. She knew she was dying. Tried to get me to agree to adopting Matilda when she was gone."

"Oh my God. What did you say?"

"I said no, of course."

"Really?" Amanda asked, sounding—of all things—discouraged.

So much for moral support.

"Yes, really. I mean, not in those exact words, but I told her it wouldn't be possible. No one is going to grant me custody of my abductors' child. And I had a previous relationship with both parents, which obviously didn't turn out so hot for anyone."

"What about Judge Linden? She helped you adopt Noah. She knows what a great mom you are. I bet she and Langan would make it happen again if you asked."

"Oh yes, let me just call in a favor to my legal team so I can adopt another child without jumping through any hoops."

"Why the hell not?" Amanda gestured with the hand holding her drink, dangerously close to baptizing Frannie in a 2018 vintage. "You'd give that kid a great home. Why should she suffer through foster care and that whole nightmare when someone like you could have her? Screw the hoops. You went through plenty of those with Noah. I say go for it if you want her. I'd be first in line to recommend you to ACS. Of course, they might not listen to me since I killed one of her parents... but you've got Fin and Carisi and Stone. You should totally do it, Liv. I've seen her—she's freakin' adorable."

Olivia had listened to the entire spiel with a bemused expression. "You're drunk," she said when it ended.

An impish smile unfolded behind the rim of Amanda's glass. "A little, but I'm also right."

"About Tilly being adorable, yes. The rest of it, I'm not so sure."

"You don't want her?"

"It's not like picking out a new pair of shoes, or stopping by the shelter to take home a stray. No offense, Fran." Olivia scratched between the dog's ears, gazing down into a pair of attentive brown eyes. It looked as if she were conversing with the canine when she went on: "I don't know if I'm even ready for a second child. I still feel clueless half the time with Noah. It's not like I learned how to be a good mom by example, and I didn't have brothers or sisters to practice on. And what if Noah hates her? Just because I felt the same way holding her as I did the first time I held him doesn't mean she's mine. I mean, yes, I want her, but—"

She stopped short, suddenly aware that the woman speaking was she, that the words tumbling forth were her own. Sinking further down into the couch, she took another generous sip of Merlot and worried one of Frannie's silky ears between her fingertips.

"Look, it's probably not my place to say, but I think you should consider it," Amanda said, keeping her free hand busy with the dog's tail, which she stroked, weaved in and out of her fingers, and brandished like a pointer for emphasis. (Frannie was in Heaven.) "Nobody knows what they're doing raising kids. You just do the best you can and hope they turn out okay. And Noah's a great kid, so you must be doing something right. I bet he'd be a great big brother, too. Look how sweet he's been with Jesse the past couple days. Might be good for him to have a little sister to look out for."

Olivia pinched the bridge of her nose and groaned. "Damn it, Rollins, stop making so much sense."

"Or maybe they'd turn out like me and my sister, and not be able to spend five minutes together without contemplating homicide. Better?"

"Yes, thank you."

They settled into an easy silence for a moment, each petting their end of dog, while Frannie snored blissfully under the ministrations. Olivia might have drifted off as well, if not for the thoughts swirling around in her overactive brain. At this rate, she wouldn't sleep for a week. Maybe more, now that she had her friend's input on the Matilda situation. She was glad for the distraction when Amanda spoke up again:

"Since we're on the subject of annoying blonde sisters..."

There was a pause as Amanda reached for something next to the wine bottle. Olivia glanced up to see her holding the iPhone she had brought to the hospital earlier that day. The entire squad had pitched in to replace Olivia's broken cell, and Amanda had spent half the morning waiting for TARU to transfer the data from the old phone to the new one. So, naturally, Olivia had brought the thing home and promptly forgotten it on the coffee table, along with her misshapen frames that would also need replacing.

" _The Brady Bunch_  theme song? What the actual fuck?"

Frannie snuffled in protest when the belly she was resting upon shook with silent laughter, disturbing her slumber. She solved the problem by pillowing her head on Olivia's breast instead.

"Okay, A: you were never supposed to hear that. And B: I'm keeping your dog." Olivia kissed Frannie on the muzzle and received a lick under the chin in return.

"Don't seduce my furbaby as a means of changing the subject—"

("Oh my God," Olivia said, laughing out loud this time.)

"—I wanna know. Is it some sort of commentary on my hair color? My groovy seventies fashion? What? Do I have a lisp I'm unaware of?"

"Stop." Olivia held her drink out to keep it from spilling as she giggled uncontrollably. She waved her other hand in surrender. "It's just an in-joke. With myself. If you guys—the squad—were my kids, you'd be the middle child. You're my Jan Brady."

"Aw man, seriously? I'm  _Jan_? Couldn't I at least be Peter?"

"Nope, you're Jan. You even kind of sound like her right now."

"Ugh, fine. Have it your way, Carol." Amanda made a face, but could only hold it for a second before breaking into an amused grin. "So, I get Carisi's ringtone, since he's the youngest. But I gotta ask—if I'm Jan and he's Baby Sinclair, who's Fin?"

"Well, I had to go a bit more abstract with him." Olivia gestured for the phone, tapping into the sounds menu and selecting ringtones. "I couldn't think of a good theme song for the eldest. So, his is less about birth order, and more a representation of the essence he conveys. It's almost... well, it's almost spiritual. Listen."

She pressed the ringtone and held the speaker out towards Amanda, who had leaned in with anticipation. The detective was already snickering as the first few bouncy notes of a hip hop tune played. She joined in when the vocals began, matching them word for word:

" _Now, this is a story all about how  
__My life got flipped-turned upside down  
__And I'd like to take a minute  
__Just sit right there  
__I'll tell you how I became the prince of a town called Bel-Air..._ "

"I can't believe you still remember all the lyrics," Olivia said between bouts of laughter, as Amanda continued rapping and giggling her way through the entire theme song, long after the sound bite had ended. "That is either really impressive or really, really sad."

"Are you kidding?  _Fresh Prince of Bel-Air_  was my jam from, like, fifth grade on. How can you  _not_  know the lyrics?"

"I know them. Just not every single nuance of every single phrase. Unlike some of us." Smiling slyly, Olivia nudged the blonde with her elbow. "But I am a bit older than you, my dear. I was already in my twenties when that show started."

"Well then, Grandma, what nineties shows were you into?"

"Um, okay, just for that, you're not getting anymore of my expensive-ass wine," Olivia said, confiscating the bottle to pour herself another half-glass. When Amanda held hers out with a pouty expression, Olivia rolled her eyes and filled it as well. "As for nineties shows... hmm, let's see. I loved  _Twin Peaks_. And  _The X-Files_."

"So, basically you were into the weird shit."

"More like I was into David Duchovny and Kyle MacLachlan." Olivia fanned a hand in front of her face, indicating the steaminess of the two male leads. "My goodness, but they were pretty."

After a lengthy debate about which actor from a nineties series was the sexiest—Amanda argued in favor of George Clooney on  _ER_ , but Olivia held fast to Duchovny—and which female character would triumph in a fight to the death—Olivia was adamant that Xena would win, but Amanda swore by Buffy—they found themselves scrolling through Netflix, in search of a show they could agree on.

"Ooh, I've been wanting to watch this one," Olivia said, using the remote to highlight  _The Haunting of Hill House_  on the flatscreen. "It's supposed to be really good, but I can't watch it when Noah's awake."

Amanda wrinkled her nose. She had sunk so deeply into the couch, her elbows were propped against the seat cushions. The stem of her wine glass was trapped between her legs, which were extended fully, ankles crossed on the coffee table. "More weird shit?"

In a similar position, except for the pit bull tucked under one arm, Olivia reached over and poked her friend in the ribs. "Come on, Detective Rollins. You're not scared, are you? What would Buffy think?"

"Buffy was the Chosen One. I'm plain old scaredy cat Amanda, who ran screaming from the theater during  _The Conjuring_."

"Seriously? I love those movies."

Amanda groaned. "All right, you sadistic bastard. Play it. But if there's a demon-possessed doll, I'm out."

There were no demon-possessed dolls, as it turned out, but Amanda checked out early anyhow—three episodes into the Crain family saga, Olivia looked askance to see the blonde's reaction to the true identity of Mr. Smiley, only to discover that her bingeing partner was fast asleep, empty wine glass cradled in one arm like a swaddled infant.

It was just as well. Watching Theo—Olivia's favorite of the adult Crain children—unravel the mystery of her young patient's spectral encounters had been difficult. She'd found herself wondering if yesterday's horrors could have been avoided, had she just put forth a little more effort with Calvin and Amelia when they were younger. No offense to Theo, but guilt was a far worse haunting to endure than ghosts.

Olivia checked the time on her squeaky clean new phone, appalled to see it was well past 3AM. Almost as appalled as when she'd discovered that she and Amanda had decimated the entire bottle of Merlot in one sitting. Thank God they were both on leave for the next few days, and Lucy had offered to walk the kids to school in the morning (the nanny's version of an apology for instigating the impromptu slumber party in the first place).

She hesitated on the next episode option, wondering if she dare. Finally, she pushed the button. None of the shadows that lingered on the walls of Hill House could be more frightening than the ones that lingered in her mind.

"Looks like it's just you and me, kid," Olivia said to Frannie, hugging the dog close as the title sequence crescendoed onto the screen.


	11. Disclosure

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, y'all, we've reached the last chapter(s). I want to extend another HUGE thank you to each and every person who took the time to read my fic and/or leave reviews. I didn't get to respond to each one like I planned, but they were so appreciated and a major pick-me-up for the past month+. Tbh I'm a little nervous about posting this after the blowback from chapter 10 (on a different site...), but hopefully some of you will find it to your liking. It was never my intention to romanticize or omit anything Olivia went through—so much of her recovery has been portrayed on the show, I didn't focus as much on it for this story. It was a fine line to walk because she can't remember most of this attack and because she's got years of experience burying trauma; perhaps some will think I crossed it. All I can say is, I wanted something good to come of the hell she went through. And just because I didn't deal with it all in this story doesn't mean I don't have plans to deal with it in the future. Including her motivation for certain things ahead. (Also feel like I should warn you, the title of this chapter probably doesn't refer to what you might think. I enjoy a little wordplay now and again.) So. Without further ado...

* * *

"Oh, oh, oh  
Sweet child o' mine  
Oh, oh, oh, oh  
Sweet love of mine"

\- GUNS N' ROSES

* * *

 

 **Chapter 11:**  Disclosure

_Halloween._

The little white mouse scampered past Olivia, its long tail flapping in the wind. "Not so fast," she called, trotting to keep up as it rounded the corner ahead of her. She caught up just as the apartment door opened. Princess Leia was holding an Ewok on the other side.

"Trick or treat!" Noah and Olivia announced in unison. The boy thrust out his open candy bag, while the mother re-situated the black witch hat that stood askew after their jogging session down the hall.

"Ooh, what a handsome little mouse!" cooed the young woman dressed as Princess Leia—flowing white dress, twin cinnamon roll protuberances, and all. The baby on her hip looked about eight or nine months old, its pudgy cheeks framed by a cowl fashioned from an adult-size t-shirt and some artistic snipping. Its compact little body was tucked into a teddy bear onesie, the look completed by a brown dot on its tiny pugged nose.

The cute was strong with this one. Olivia had to resist the urge to pinch those fat, rosy cheeks.

"And what a pretty witch! You must be the good kind."

"Oh, that's just my mom," Noah said, his chin practically resting on the brim of the bowl that Leia held out for him. He surveyed the candy it contained, intent on choosing the perfect piece. It took a moment and several put-backs, but he finally settled on a mini Snickers. "I told her witches don't wear jeans, but she didn't listen."

"Hey, mister, most mice don't wear any clothes at all, you know," Olivia said, plucking at the red sweater he had picked out all by himself to match his tan corduroy pants and white Chucks.

"Stuart Little does." He smiled triumphantly up at her, although everything resembled a smile behind the rubber mask shaped like a rodent's nose and buckteeth. A thatch of soft brown curls had escaped his fluffy white hood, from which two giant mouse ears sprouted on either side.

Olivia would have liked to take credit for the adorableness before her, but Lucy's mom had been the one to save the day when Noah made a last minute decision to dress as his current favorite literary hero, Stuart Little, instead of a baseball player. Possessing not a single ounce of sewing ability, Olivia had mentioned the costume switch to her nanny, who enlisted the retired Mrs. Huston's help to whip up an overnight solution.

The result was a creative hodgepodge of felt, fleece, and yarn: the close-fitting cap Velcroed under the chin, sporting ears the size of softballs; the fingerless mittens were a versatile solution to paws, providing warmth and enough dexterity for candy collection; and the tail, of extravagant length, was literally a snap to attach—it fastened in place via safety pin.

To Olivia's credit, she had scoured the Halloween store top to bottom until she found a bewhiskered rubber nose. It was the perfect addition to an already first-rate costume, and the late night scramble had been worth it to see Noah's delight with the finished product. He'd been strutting around the neighborhood, brazen as any New York City rat, for the past two hours.

"All right, Stuart, tell them thank you," she said, patting him gently on the back. Even a mouse must remember his manners.

"Thank you!" Noah offered up another winning smile, with an extra shot of dimple. "I like your baby," he added, giving the child's outstretched fingers a friendly shake. "Is he a boy or a girl?"

"She's a little girl. Her name is Phoebe. I think she likes your ears."

Noah leaned forward to let the little girl bat at the fuzzy appendages with her chubby hand. He reached up and wiggled the small brown ears that poked out of her Ewok hood. "I like your ears too, Phoebe."

The baby giggled and kicked her legs excitedly at hearing her own name spoken by a four-foot tall mouse. She squealed with utter delight when it did a little dance for her, bopping its head and shuffling its sneakered feet.

"Wow, Stuart's got some moves," Leia said, grinning almost as widely as her daughter. She held out the bowl again. "That deserves some more candy. Take as much as you want, sweetheart."

"Oh God," said the witch.

Noah had at least half a dozen full-sized candy bars worth of minis clutched in his greedy little paws by the time Olivia tried to stop him. She could already picture the cavities as he released a shower of chocolate and nougat into his waiting bag.

"Not on your life," she said, blocking him as he went back for more.

"May the force be with you," Noah sang out, waving goodbye to Leia and Phoebe when he moved on to the next apartment. After the last two doors had been soundly knocked upon, the dregs of two more candy bowls emptied into Noah's bulging sack—next year, they were hitting their apartment building first, before everyone got desperate to throw in the towel—Olivia checked her watch.

"Hey, bub, what do you say we call it a night?" she asked, resting a hand on top of his head to tilt it back and look in his eyes. Her heart fluttered the tiniest bit, but whether it was the overwhelming love she felt for her son, or the nerves she'd been holding at bay all evening, she couldn't say. "It's past trick or treat time. And Mama's got something to talk to you about."

"Am I in trouble?" Noah scrunched up his features, trying to keep his rubber snout in place as he gazed up at her. "I didn't mean what I said about witches not wearing jeans. Girls can wear whatever they want, even if they are witches, right, Mommy?"

Laughing to hide the tears in her eyes, Olivia knelt to his level this time and pulled him into a fierce hug. "That's right, sweet boy. But you're not in trouble, so don't even think that, okay? I just have something important I need to tell you."

"Okay, let's go home." Noah patted her on the back. "And Mama?"

"Yeah, baby?"

"Can you stop squishing my candy, please?"

**. . .**

Half an hour later, the sugary haul—unscathed by Olivia's show of affection—covered the living room rug. Boy had shed the trappings of mouse and was Noah Porter Benson once again. He sat in the midst of his candy, eyes alight as they took in the view, curls afrizz from the fleece cap. He looked so happy and innocent, Olivia didn't think she could tell him. Suppose it did psychological damage? And why spoil his evening? One more day wouldn't hurt, would it?

They were the same fears that had stopped her a million times before. But she'd made up her mind the night before, while lying awake in bed—sleep didn't exist anymore, at least not in intervals longer than two or three hours—and thinking about Calvin Arliss. How family secrets had destroyed him. How the truth had come too late and pushed him over the cliff he'd been teetering on. She didn't want that for Noah. Even if it meant he hated her, he deserved to know while he was young enough to adjust—and to be helped if he couldn't.

It had to be now, when life was carefree and filled with magic and candy and little boys who transformed into sweater-wearing mice.

"So, Noah," she said, settling beside him on the rug, "let's have our talk now, okay?"

"'Kay." He paused in the middle of sorting chocolate bars and fruit-flavored candies into separate piles and folded his hands politely in his lap.

_Please let this be the right thing._

"Remember when we talked about families and how not all of them are the same? Like how Stuart was different from his parents, but that's why they loved him so much?"

"Uh-huh. And like how Jaden's got two daddies instead of one. Because they all love each other, and that's what a family is."

"That's right. Just like Auntie Amanda and Uncle Fin and Sonny are our family, even though we're not related and none of us look alike—"

"Yeah, especially Uncle Sonny, he's  _really_  silly-looking." Noah giggled heartily at the observation. He and Carisi were in constant competition to insult each other the most. The mischievous gibes usually focused on appearance or bodily functions, and ranged from ridiculous to downright smelly. Must be a boy thing.

Olivia couldn't help smiling. "I'll be sure to tell him you said so. But even though we all come from different places and different mommies and daddies, we're still a family, right? Even silly Uncle Sonny?"

"Yep. I know lots of kids who don't have any aunts or uncles like I do. That sounds boring. Some of them don't have grandmas, either." He leaned in, voice lowered as if his unfortunate schoolmates were in the room. "They probably don't get spoiled very much."

"I'm glad you mentioned grandmas," Olivia said, trying not to sound too stilted. The topic was still a touchy one for her. "Because Grandma Sheila is another part of what I want to talk about..."

She took a deep, shaky breath, clueless as to how to proceed now that she'd made it this far. She must have looked as petrified as she felt, because Noah put his hand on her knee and said, "It's okay, Mommy. Don't be scared."

That was all she needed to hear. She would be damned if she'd make this a frightening experience for him by showing fear herself. Clearing her throat, she took his small hand in hers and kissed the palm. "I'm not scared, sweetheart. Not with you by my side. You've made me happier and stronger than I ever was before you were mine. But I want to tell you how I became your mommy."

"I know that! The stork brought me to you."

"Well, not exactly. Do you remember when Jesse was still in Aunt Amanda's tummy? You could feel her kick when you touched the bump."

Noah thought hard for a moment. "Kind of. I was just a little kid, then."

"Right. That's why I didn't tell you this sooner. I didn't think you would understand back then,  
( _That, and I was afraid you wouldn't love me anymore._ )  
but now you're a big boy and so smart."

Olivia cupped his cheek, stroking it with her thumb—just one more moment where he was entirely hers. And then: "See, honey, some babies grow in their own mommy's tummy, like Jesse did. But other babies grow in another lady's tummy, until they can come out to be with their real mommy. That's what you did."

The silence was excruciating. She wanted to curl into a ball and cry as he studied her skeptically for what seemed like forever.

"I didn't grow in your tummy?" he finally asked.

"No, baby. Not mine. You remember when Grandma Sheila told you about Ellie and how much she loved you? Well, that's because you came from Ellie's tummy. She was Sheila's daughter, and she was also what's called your birth mom. That means she took care of you in her tummy and for a while after you were born."

"So... I had a different mom when I was a baby?"

At first, she could only nod. It was difficult to breathe. "For a little while, yes. But Ellie got very sick and couldn't take care of you anymore. She wanted to, but she just couldn't. And that's when you came to live with me. I adopted you. Have you heard that word before—adopted?"

"I think so. A boy in my class has a 'dopted sister. What does it mean?"

"It means that I loved you so much there was nothing in this world I wanted more than to be your mommy. After you lived with me a while, a judge said you could be my son forever. She made me your legal guardian, which means nobody can ever take you away from me."

"What about the judge? Can she make me not your son?" Noah asked with alarm.

"Absolutely not," she said quickly, pecking several kisses to the hand she hadn't let go of. "No one can do that, not even a judge. You're my boy for good."

"Good." He visibly relaxed, but continued to watch her with an expression far too serious for a six-year-old. "Mama, can I sit in your lap?"

"You better believe it." Olivia patted her thighs and helped him get situated on her folded legs. Then she wrapped her arms around him and held him close, conveying every ounce of love she could through the snug embrace. "I want you to know this doesn't change anything between us, okay? All it means is that we became a family in a different way than some people do. But there are lots of little boys and girls out there just like you, whose mommies adopted them, too. And you know what else?"

"What?"

"I love you just as much as if you came from my tummy. More, even. Because I got to choose you. Lots of mommies aren't that lucky. But I saw how special you were from the first time I held you, and I would've picked you over any other kid in the whole wide world. I still would."

Noah reached back, looping his arm behind her neck. He stroked her hair a few times, mimicking the soothing gesture she usually reserved for him. "I'd pick you, too."

She allowed the tears to fall freely, now that his back was turned. They still wet his hair as she rested her cheek there, but she managed to keep a relatively steady voice as she told him:

"And I also want you to know, whatever you're feeling right now—it's okay. If you're happy or sad or mad, there's nothing you can feel that would be wrong. You can talk to me about any of it, okay?"

"Okay, but I'm not sad or mad." The boy sat very still for a moment, as if focusing inward to determine his current emotional state. "I feel the same as before, I think. Should I feel different?"

"Not if you don't want to." Olivia kissed his dampened curls and used the edge of her sleeve to dry her face. She took a deep breath in preparation for the next step. "Were there any other questions you wanted to ask me?"

He fiddled with one of her rings, twisting it around her finger for such a long time without answering, she thought he might be ignoring her. But finally: "Where is Ellie now? Is she still my birth mom?"

And right for the jugular.

"She'll always be your birth mom, sweetie. But Ellie is..." Dead? In a better place? Not with us anymore? They'd had a few vague discussions about death, prompted by comments in movies or one particularly informative Easter sermon, but those involved cartoon characters and two-thousand-year-old Biblical figures. How did you explain it to a child whose mother had been gang-raped and set on fire?

"Ellie is in Heaven," Olivia finished. It was as close to the truth as she could get for now. And hopefully for a very, very long time to come.

"Oh." Noah stopped twisting the ring and turned to look at her. "You mean she died? Like Bambi's mom?"

"Yes, sweetheart. I'm so sorry, but she did."

"Because she was sick?"

"That was part of it, yes. She wanted to get better so she could be there for you, but she didn't get the chance. I know she would be so proud of what a wonderful boy you are, though."

"Was she the same sick as Grandma Sheila? The kind you can't see? Is Grandma Sheila going to die, too?"

A callous hand wrenched at Olivia's heart. They were getting to be old friends, she and that invisible, vice-like grip. "No, Grandma Sheila's not going to die. Not for years and years. Ellie was sick in a different way. It made her unable to take care of herself or of you. But you know what? My mommy was sick like that, too. That's something you and I have in common."

"Did another mommy 'dopted you?"

"No, I stayed with the mommy who had me in her tummy."

For better or for worse.

"Did she die from her sick?"

"Yes, but not until I was all grown up."

Noah put his arm around her again and breathed a little sigh. "I'm sad Ellie died."

As viciously as the hand clamped down on her heart, that was how gently she took his face in her own hands and kissed it. "Me too."

"I'm sorry your mommy died," he said, giving her shoulder a sympathetic pat.

"Thank you, sweetheart." Olivia dotted another kiss to his forehead, then rested her forehead against it. They sat like that for several somber moments, but when they both opened their eyes at the same time and caught a cross-eyed glimpse of each other, Noah lightened the mood with a giggle. It turned into a full blown fit of laughter when she spidered her fingers over his ribs. Pitching sideways on the carpet, they engaged in a brief skirmish of tickles and belly laughs that left them panting for breath.

"Mama?" Noah asked, head resting against her chest as they lay sprawled among the scattered Halloween treats. His ear was pressed directly over her heart.

It didn't hurt anymore.

"Hm?"

"Can I have some candy now?"

She gave him a playful clap on the rear and sat them both upright. "Not if I eat it all first."

While he gorged himself on chocolate bars, Olivia pieced her way through a bag of Sour Patch Kids—Noah detested sour candy—and kept the laughter going with various puckered faces. She watched him closely for any signs that he had been negatively impacted by what he'd learned, but so far there were none.

She knew there would be more questions later on. Of course she knew it. One day he would think to ask about a father. And eventually he wouldn't just accept the glossed over explanation of his birth parents' deaths. But that was not today. Today, he was just a boy with chocolate smeared on his face and hands, a mouse tail pinned to the back of his pants, and all his mother's love shining down on him.

When the questions inevitably came, she would meet them head-on, as she met every challenge she faced. Because that's what mothers do.

 

* * *

 

_Thanksgiving._

"Ugghhh," Amanda said to the ceiling. She popped open the button of her jeans and stretched out her entire five foot, seven inches in the dining room chair.

"Ughh," Olivia groaned in return, leaning back against the headrest, one hand on her belly, the other on her forehead.

An empty pumpkin pie tin sat between them on the table, the crumbs leading towards each of their plates like the small trail of sins that prefaced a larger transgression. Amanda had scraped off the whipped cream, and Olivia had picked apart most of the crust, but the damage was done. They had officially overeaten.

Fin rolled his eyes at their second chorus of gluttonous regret. "Y'all white people can't handle your food. Steal it right out the mouths of Native American babies, then whine about your gastrointestinal distress."

"You had seconds and ate two whole slices of pie," Amanda said, lifting her head with a great deal of effort. It wobbled on her shoulders and dropped backwards again. "You could feed an entire tribe of Native Americans with what you put away."

"And like any self-respecting black man, I'll digest in silence." Fin plucked a toothpick from the container at the center of the table and stuck it between his teeth. "Then I'll take a dump and make room for leftovers."

"Ew," said Amanda.

From behind the hand plastered over her face, Olivia muttered, "Can we please not talk about poop at the dinner table? I have a hard enough time impressing that on my six-year-old. His new favorite word is 'turd.'"

Peter Stone, who was seated across from her, paused with a forkful of pumpkin pie filling halfway to his mouth. He eyed the brownish orange mush, looked around at the Thanksgiving casualties before him, then shrugged and shoveled the bite in. "Wait until he's sixteen," he said around the mouthful. "You'll long for the days of turd again."

"I don't even wanna think about it." Olivia waved the comment away, though she couldn't ward off the image that crept into her brain: a teenaged Noah, tall—Johnny D. had been well over six-foot, and Sheila Porter made Olivia feel short—and fiercely independent, the curls shorn from his unruly mop, his dimples only making rare appearances. When she suddenly envisioned him with small, wire-rimmed spectacles, a camera in his hand, she shook her head to dispel the image.

She hadn't regained her memory of what happened in the abandon warehouse office, at least not fully. Sometimes she caught peripheral glimpses, usually in dreams or when—like now—she let her mind wander, but they faded as quickly as déjà vu. For the most part, she could sleep through the night again. She thought of Calvin and Amelia less and less with each passing day.

That was the answer she gave when asked about her recovery, anyway.

"Speaking of my child," she said, sitting up to gaze around the apartment, which was awfully quiet for its roster of five adults, two children, and one dog. "Where is he?"

Since the Halloween heart-to-heart she'd had with Noah, the two had been keeping close tabs on each other. She did her best not to hover, but she was on constant alert for any behavioral changes. So far there had only been some minor acting out in school, which could just as easily be attributed to normal six-year-old antics. The most disturbing problem was a slight regression at home: one bed-wetting incident in early November, a renewed dependency on Eddie the elephant, and a couple of requests to "camp out" in her bed. Nothing too major, but she had noted his reluctance to let go of her hand in public and sometimes even while seated on their own couch.

Just not today, apparently.

"Where is  _your_  child, for that matter?" she asked, using her toe to nudge Amanda's leg.

The blonde raised her arm limply and pointed towards the bedrooms. She let it flop back down to her side like a wet noodle. "I saw them sneaking back there with Sonny after his fifteenth helping of pie. Either that, or I mistook them for food and ate them."

"My money's on the last one," said Fin, eyes drifting to her midsection. "Judging by the size of your food baby."

Stone coughed into his water glass, and Olivia glanced back and forth between her detective and sergeant like she was watching a tennis match—or waiting for two titans to collide. But Amanda just starfished in her chair, too stuffed for anything more strenuous than tossing a wadded napkin in Fin's direction. It fell several inches short, bouncing off the turkey centerpiece with its tissue paper tail that fanned open. Noah had picked out that decoration.

Right on cue, the boy came marching out of his bedroom wearing a striped elf hat with a fluff ball, jingle bells, and pointy ears attached. Jesse followed close at his heels, an identical hat falling down over her eyes. Next came Frannie, reindeer antlers jutting from a headband held in place by an elastic strap under her chin. And last but not least, Carisi emerged wearing a Santa Claus hat and blaring "Christmas Don't Be Late" by the Chipmunks on his cellphone.

"What fresh hell is this?" Fin murmured, but it was his laughter that rang out loudest as kids and dog lined up in front of the dinner table, bumping into each other and forgetting to which chipmunk they were supposed to lip-sync.

As far as the adults could tell, Noah was starring as Simon, Jesse as Theodore, and Frannie, appropriately disobedient and unresponsive, was Alvin. Carisi filled in as Dave. They made it through two versus of the song before Frannie drifted under the table to chew her antlers. By the third, Jesse gave up on the swishy choreography and ran around in circles, shouting the line about wanting a hula hoop. When the song ended, it was just Carisi miming Dave while Noah played all three bickering chipmunks. Grinning, they took their bows as the audience applauded and cheered:

"Bravo!"

"Better than Broadway."

"Jesse, calm down."

"Encore!" Peter offered, getting the stink-eye from everyone over the age of seven.

"Uncle Sonny helped me write my Christmas list," Noah announced, brandishing the sheet of notebook paper he was holding.

"Uncle Sundy helpeded me wite," Jesse echoed, clambering up her mother's body with little regard for the moans of protest. She plopped her entire weight into the lap below and thrust a crumpled sheet of paper at Amanda's slightly gray face.

"Did he, now?" Olivia said, making space for Noah as he mimicked his little sidekick and crawled into her lap. She shot Carisi a death glare over the boy's head. "And so soon after Thanksgiving. Mama's barely had time to clear the dishes."

"Or regain use of her extremities," Amanda grumbled, looking like she wanted to strangle Carisi with his own belt as she adjusted Jesse on the knees she had no choice but to bend.

Carisi took off the Santa cap and wrung it between his hands like he was lowly Bob Cratchit humbling himself before not one, but two Ebenezer Scrooges—albeit very attractive ones. "Sorry, guys. It's kind of a family tradition at my house. My sisters and I were always so excited for Christmas, we couldn't even wait for Thanksgiving to be over so we could start planning." He waggled the fuzzball on the tip of his hat at them. "On the plus side, this gives you plenty of time to go sho—"

Olivia, Amanda, and Peter all made various loud shushing noises at the same time, while Fin slashed a finger across his throat in a nixing gesture.

"—sshhow Santa what a good coupla kiddos you got here. Right, kids?"

"Yeah!" was the unanimous reply.

"Read it," Jesse said, when her mother examined the paper dangled in front of her.

"Oh, well..." Amanda accepted the sheet and turned it over for everyone to see the cyclone of squiggles that adorned the front page. She handed it back to the little girl, right-side up. "How about you read it to me, instead?"

Happy to oblige, Jesse announced every item on her list with a proud smile: nine dolls ("A perfectly reasonable amount," said Amanda); a princess dress, which seemed easy enough until she specified that it must be made by mice ("Stuart Little could do it!" Noah exclaimed); a real unicorn, although a plush one would also be acceptable ("Oh my gosh, I asked Santa for the exact same thing," Peter teased); Play-Doh ("Now you're talkin'," said Fin); and a badge and "handtuffs" like her mommy's ("Looks like I found my next recruit," said Olivia).

"Oh boy, Santa's going to have lots of fun making all those presents," Amanda said, feigning enthusiasm. She tucked the list away for safekeeping and folded her arms around Jesse, snuggling the girl close.

"The elves make the presents. Santa just delivers them," Noah said, matter-of-factly. He glanced back at Olivia, paper at the ready. "Can I read mine now?"

"Sure, sweetie."

Noah cleared his throat to begin, but once he had everyone's solemn attention, he turned shy. He mumbled the first two items—Yellies and Flarp!—slowly gaining confidence when he made it to the Super Stadium baseball game. He was back in top form, and top voice, by the time he reached the magic kit, LEGOs, and big kid bike. But he absolutely beamed at each face around the table as he read off the last gift on his wish list:

"A baby sister. Or a brother, I guess. But I think it should be a sister."

Now it was Olivia's turn to stare at her watchful guests like a deer in the headlights. She leaned over Noah's shoulder to study the list, as if she doubted its validity. But sure enough, there it was at the bottom in great big Crayola blue print.

**BAYB SISTR**

"What do you think, Mommy?"

When Olivia looked to her friends for help, all she found were smirks hidden behind napkins and a sympathetic smile from Amanda that conveyed both pity and relief that she wasn't the one in this particular hot seat.

"I swear, he added that on his own, Lieu," Carisi said, talking from the corner of his mouth as if it would prevent the others from hearing.

"I'll deal with you later." Olivia fixed him with a withering—and mostly playful—glare, before addressing her son: "I thought you didn't like babies. You told me they were smelly and boring."

"Well," Noah drawled, ducking his head and peering up at her with an expression that could charm the socks off the Grinch himself, "maybe I was wrong. I don't know many babies—that's just what Paulie told me. But if I had a sister, I don't think she'd be smelly or boring."

Fin raised his hand. "Okay, I gotta ask. Why a sister?"

"Paulie gots a little brother, and he breaks all of Paulie's toys and rips up his books. That's bad. I don't want my toys and books ruined." Noah put his dimples to work, first turning them on Olivia, then Amanda. "Plus, girls are pretty and smart. And I want a little sister like Jesse. We have lots of fun, right, Jess?"

"Uh-huh!" To prove her point, Jesse wormed free of her mother's arms and expertly scaled Olivia's knee to snuggle in beside the boy. She rested her head against his shoulder, gazing up in adoration.

"Oh, Lord," Amanda said, and facepalmed.

Peter hummed the first few notes of the "Bridal Chorus," then coughed into his hand like it was a throat tickle.

Ignoring the adults, Noah slung his arm around Jesse's shoulders companionably. He glanced around at Olivia with a beseeching look in his big blue eyes. "It doesn't have to be a tummy baby. It could be a 'dopted one."

Olivia didn't often blush from embarrassment, but the comment caught her off guard. She had already informed her friends that Noah was aware of his adoption, in case he should bring it up to one of them—she just hadn't counted on him using it to weasel a sister out of her in front of her squad at Thanksgiving. "I think I'd have to have a serious talk with Mr. Claus about that one. Believe it or not, he doesn't get much say in that department."

"'Cause the judge and the 'doption place has to decide?" Noah asked.

"Mm-hmm. And it can take a long time. Even Santa's magic probably couldn't get a baby here by Christmas."

"Oh." With a dejected sigh, Noah let his shoulders slump. "Okay, I guess I'll just ask him for a turtle, then."

Olivia dropped a kiss each atop the two heads in front of her, chestnut curls first, then the towhead. "Don't worry, loves, I'm sure you'll both have great Christmases. You're definitely at the top of the nice list. Best kids in Manhattan right here, huh, guys?"

A murmur of warm agreement from the other guests put a smile back on Noah's face, and a few moments later, he was off laughing and playing with Jesse and Frannie again.

**. . .**

Half an hour after that, Fin had left for Thanksgiving: Part II at his son's house, and Peter was off attending to ADA duties. The kids and the dog were conked out on the couch with Uncle Sonny, leaving dish duty to the womenfolk—as they referred to themselves with more than a little bite—who stood in the kitchen, sudsing, rinsing, and drying a seemingly endless stream of plates and silverware.

Times like these, Olivia wished for a dishwasher. And a bigger apartment. Soon enough, perhaps...

"I think you got all the gravy off. And a layer or two of porcelain, as well."

"What?" Olivia glanced down at the plate in her hands. It was on its fourth or fifth go-round with the sponge. She had completely zoned out, lost in the monotony of the work and the mesmerizing opalescence of soapy bubbles. "Oh, sorry," she said, passing the plate under the faucet and handing it over to Amanda, who had run out of things to dry.

"You seem kinda distracted," the detective observed, wiping in a slow circle with the dish towel. "Everything okay?"

Olivia folded her lips together and glanced into the next room to be sure her son was still asleep. He hadn't moved from his spot, tucked securely against Carisi's side—Jesse had lodged herself neatly into the other—for the past fifteen minutes. But if she had learned one thing from motherhood, it was to never underestimate a child's ability to overhear a conversation. Especially a private one.

She dropped her sponge into the dishwater, dried her hands on Amanda's towel, then grabbed the blonde by the hand and led her back to the bedroom. When the door was closed behind them, she turned to Amanda, who already looked duly stunned, and blurted, "I filed the paperwork."

Amanda blinked rapidly. "Okay... what paperwork are we talking about?"

"To adopt Matilda."

"Oh my God," Amanda said, hand flying to her mouth in surprise. Her voice had risen a few octaves, but dropped right down to a stage whisper when Olivia made silencing gestures. "Oh my God, are you serious?"

"Yes. I did it right after Halloween. I couldn't stop thinking about her. And about what you said—how she needed a good home, and why shouldn't I be the one to give it to her? Then I saw Noah with this cute little baby during Trick or Treat, and he was so good with her, Amanda. Then I told him about being adopted and what it means to be a family, and the next day I dropped him off at school and went to fill out the paperwork."

Olivia paused to take a breath and realized she was pacing the room like a caged tiger. She flopped down on the edge of her bed, looking to Amanda for confirmation as she concluded, "I think I've lost my goddamned mind. What am I gonna do with another kid?"

Shrugging lightly, Amanda took a seat beside Olivia on the comforter. "Love her? Teach her to be a badass like you?"

"You make it sound so simple," Olivia said, a faint smile on her lips. She gazed around the room, taking in the white oak armoire and matching dresser, the full-length mirror propped in the corner, the upholstered headboard, the ivory rug, the carefully selected artwork interspersed with black and white portraits of Noah. She hadn't moved a single piece of furniture since she and Cassidy first leased the apartment. Granted, it was heavy, but the only things different from five years ago were the photos. "Everything would change. I'll probably have to get a bigger apartment so she'll have her own room..."

She shook her head and sighed. "I'm already talking like she's mine. But for all I know, they'll turn me down. That's why I haven't said anything to Noah yet. I don't want him to get his hopes up."

"Is she being fostered right now?"

"She was, and the couple was planning to adopt her, but then they got pregnant and backed out."

"They couldn't find any relatives that wanted her?"

"Nope. Calvin killed most of them." Olivia grimaced at the bitterness she heard in her own voice. She grabbed a throw pillow from the cushioned bench at the foot of the bed and crushed it against her chest, twisting the decorative chenille fringe around her fingers. "At least the immediate ones. There's a maternal aunt on Amelia's side, and some paternal cousins, but none of them want Matilda because of who her parents were. Amelia they could get past... but not him."

"Well, their loss." Amanda bumped her shoulder into Olivia's, offering an encouraging smile. "Your gain. And Tilly's. You're way more qualified to deal with that situation than they would be."

"You mean, because my dad was a rapist who only quit when he couldn't get it up anymore, and my mom literally drank herself to death? Or because my son's father was a pimp and a murderer, and his mother a junkie whore?" Olivia pretended to weigh the options in either hand, then nudged her friend back to pass off the bit of brutal honesty as a joke.

"Yes, to all of that. You know better than anyone that genetics don't determine your fate."

"I'll be sure to mention that during the home study."

"When is it?"

"Next week. It's all happening a lot faster than I anticipated. I guess because I've adopted before, and they're in a hurry to place her?" Olivia hugged the pillow tight for a moment, then returned it to the bench and plumped it with a karate chop to the middle. "But I'm trying not to get my hopes up, either. After the home study, they still might not match her to me. And even if they do, it'll be a temporary placement for at least a few months. A lot could happen between now and then."

"You afraid you'll change your mind?"

It took less than a second for Olivia to respond: "Not even a little bit." She turned to Amanda with a solicitous look, as if the blonde might have the perfect answer to assuage her fears. "I'm worried how it will affect Noah, though. What if they place her with us, but it doesn't work out? He'd be devastated."

In a move that closely mirrored their children's earlier display of camaraderie, Amanda draped an arm around Olivia's shoulders. "It'd be tough. But he'd have you to help him through it. He'd have all of us."

While it might not have been the perfect answer, it was pretty darn close. Olivia felt some of the weight she'd been carrying around since Noah's surprise announcement after dinner—since early November, really—lifting from her shoulders. She laughed extra loud when Amanda added:

"And if all else fails, you can adopt Jesse. Of course, you'll have to adopt me and Frannie, too. We're kind of a package deal."

"See? Just like the Bradys. Three very lovely girls with hair of gold."

Amanda rolled her eyes and got to her feet, dragging Olivia up with her. "What is it with you and the damn Brady Bunch?"

"Oh, come on—hello? They were the quintessential American family." Olivia looped her arm through Amanda's, using it to pivot the blonde around for a question of utmost importance. "You never wanted to be a Brady?"

"Eh. Too white bread. I always preferred  _The Partridge Family_. They were a hot mess, but Shirley Jones was the coolest mom ever and David Cassidy was yummy."

"This from the woman who made fun of my crush on David Duchovny," Olivia said, opening the bedroom door to usher Amanda through.

They made their way back into the kitchen to finish up the dishes, while extolling the virtues of their favorite Davids and ribbing each other about who had the bigger crush on Danny Bonaduce. For the first time, Olivia felt as if she knew what it must be like to have a little sister.

 

* * *

 

**Epilogue**

_Christmas._

Warm milk wasn't all it was cracked up to be. (Technically, it was room-temperature milk, but that wasn't a thing.) Olivia wrinkled her nose in disgust and set the glass aside, making a mental note to dump it before bed.

Warm cookies, however, were God's gift to mankind. Feet propped on the coffee table, Olivia leaned back on the couch and rested the plate of chocolate chip cookies—still gooey delicious from the oven—on her stomach. In the corner of the living room, the Christmas tree twinkled with its multicolored lights, which Noah had picked out—plain white was too boring. He had a point. She smiled fondly at the tree, eyes drifting up to the newest ornament that hung from a branch near the top: a pink unicorn with rockers on its feet, like a hobbyhorse. Noah had picked that out, as well. It matched his blue rocking horse.

She let her vision blur as she chewed, the individual bulbs on the tree melting into a colorful stained glass pattern, the chocolate chips melting on her tongue. It occurred to her that she hadn't felt so content since before her experience with Calvin and Amelia. No, even longer than that. Since before the Manhattan Mangler. Looking back, she realized she'd been waiting for him since the first dead victim. She'd been waiting for him all along.

There weren't as many flashbacks these days. The nightmares still persisted, but those had plagued her from childhood. She had more or less trained herself to wake up when they became too intense. Going back to sleep was another matter, but she'd also learned to function on fewer hours than most; she was a cop and a mom, after all.

She'd just polished off Santa's second cookie and was contemplating Rudolph's carrot when the sound of her bedroom door creaking open grabbed her attention. Normally she only heard that sound when she entered or exited the room herself.

Setting the decorative dish and carrot stick aside, Olivia got up and tiptoed to the end of the hall, pausing outside the open door. She had set the Slumber Buddies' timer to forty-five minutes, and the little plush hippo still chimed away faithfully on her nightstand. Its current selection was "Brahm's Lullaby," as a starry sky danced across the bedroom walls and ceiling, projected from a plastic shell on the hippo's back. The nightlight had belonged Noah when he was a baby. As did the crib he stood beside now, peeking through the wooden slats at the infant inside.

Matilda, who had been sound asleep when Olivia put her down thirty minutes ago, was wide awake and gazing intently at the simulated galaxy overhead. At five and a half months, she was still the same serene and cheerful baby girl Olivia had met two months ago. As the social worker had put it, the child was "practically zen."

Zen and currently working her magic on Noah as he beamed down at her with brotherly pride. They looked like fairy children, the two of them, eyes agleam in the ambient light, stars playing on their cheeks. Unaware a third party observed from the doorway, they regarded each other with mutual fascination for several silent moments.

When the lullaby ended and the hippo began playing sounds of a babbling brook, Noah spoke in a hushed, reverential tone: "Hi, Tilly. 'Member me? I'm Noah. Can you say Noah? It's easy, just say 'no' and 'uh'... No-uhhh. Noah."

Matilda gurgled and patted the dinosaur footie pajamas she was zipped into. She'd long outgrown the clothes that were her only worldly possession after her parents' death, and though she had a few onesies and some outfits—all cloyingly pink and ruffly—donated by her former foster family, pajamas were in short supply.

Luckily, Olivia had hung onto some of Noah's baby clothes. Carisi's nephew and Fin's grandson had inherited a few of the hand-me-downs, but Olivia couldn't quite part with some of her favorites, dinosaur footies included.

"Well, maybe later, then," Noah said amiably, though he didn't get his intended reply. "Anyway, I couldn't sleep, either. Tomorrow's Christmas. Do you know what that is? It's when Jesus was born, so Santa Claus brings lots of presents. Like a birthday party, but for everybody. I don't know if Santa will know your address yet, since you just got here today. If he doesn't, you can play with some of my toys. I don't have any dolls, but I've got lots of stuffed animals."

The boy displayed the plush elephant he was holding as proof. "This one's name is Eddie. He's been mine for a real long time, and he keeps me company at night when it's too dark or I have scary dreams." He fiddled with the elephant's trunk for a moment, then hugged the toy tightly and kissed it on the head. Standing on his toes, he dangled Eddie over the side of the crib and let his old friend drop in next to Matilda. "I think you should have him now. I don't need him anymore. But you gotta promise to take good care of him. He'll protect you when I'm not around to do it.

"'Cause don't tell my mom I told you this, but I'm your big brother now. She says it's not  _fishal_  yet and we have to wait and see if the courts let us 'dopt you, but I decided you're my sister no matter what. There's all kinds of ways to be a family, not just being born from someone's tummy. I didn't come from my mommy's tummy, but she's still my mommy. And now she's yours too. So that makes us a family, and we love you just the same. Proly more, since we got to choose you. And out of all the sisters in the world, I'd pick you."

Noah kissed his fingertips and slipped his hand through the crib slats to gently stroke the baby's head. "G'night, Tilly. Go to sleep so Santa can come."

Ducking behind the corner, Olivia darted down the hall and into the kitchen before her door creaked open again. She waited until Noah had crept back to his own room before she returned to check on Matilda, who would share a bedroom with her, under the condition that a more suitable arrangement be worked out within the next few months. The idea of moving again, especially with two young children in tow, was daunting, but the moment the social worker had placed the baby in Olivia's arms—only a few hours ago, really—she'd known she would do whatever it took to keep her.

"Hey there, little lovebug," she whispered, leaning over the crib tentatively. Despite the hippo nightlight, the room was still dim, the surroundings still strange to the child who might not immediately recognize an unfamiliar woman hovering above her. But the second Matilda caught a glimpse of her, the baby reached out her chubby little arms in their fuzzy dinosaur-print sleeves, wanting to be picked up.

"You're supposed to be asleep, Miss Tilly," Olivia said, even as she was gathering the child into her arms. A small  
( _click_ )  
twinge, too indistinct to qualify as pain, passed through her shoulder when she lifted the tiny, warm body to hers. Physical therapy had restored her range of motion, but it seemed she would always have a bit of a trick shoulder. She had learned to ignore it. Even if her body was an ode to the attacks visited upon it, she refused to let her mind become just another verse.

"I gotcha. I gotcha." She supported the diapered bottom with one arm, opposite hand cupped behind the head of downy auburn hair. At nearly six months, Matilda was mostly capable of holding her own head up, but Olivia used the opportunity to guide the baby in for a series of forehead kisses. Matilda returned the affection by nuzzling into the crook of Olivia's neck and resting there as they started for the living room, each step accompanied by a gentle bounce and a pat on the baby's rear.

With no clear idea of where they were going, Olivia wandered down the hall and found herself gravitating towards the Christmas tree. Twinkle lights had always been one of her favorite parts of the holiday, the soft, magical glow evoking some of her fonder childhood memories. Her mother had loved Christmas and worked extra hard to stay sober during that time, despite the free-flowing booze at almost every get-together. (New Year's was a whole other story.)

"Aren't the lights so pretty?" Olivia murmured to the baby, continuing the rhythmic bouncing that used to lull Noah to sleep when he woke up fussy in the middle of the night. She pointed out a few of the ornaments here and there, describing them for Matilda's benefit.

When she reached the pink unicorn, she brought it down from its branch for the little girl to view up-close. "And this one's yours. To celebrate your first Christmas with us. See, here on the back? Matilda Janice Cole, 2018." She ran her thumb across the name she'd printed out in fine point Sharpie the previous day, after a mad dash trip to pick up baby food and diapers when she got off the phone with the social worker. Matilda was hers. Temporary placement until spring or summer of next year, and if all went well, the adoption proceedings would be complete before the 2019 holiday season rolled around.

It still felt like a dream. She had pinched herself multiple times over the past several weeks as each piece fell into place, from the home study—which went as naturally as inviting a stranger to pry into your personal life could go—to the meeting with Judge Linden. At first, the judge had grilled her, wanting to know what made Olivia think she would be the best person to take custody of this particular child.

"Because I know what it's like to be judged by who your parents are. It took me years to figure out that mine didn't define me. If anyone can help that little girl learn the same lesson, and love her no matter where she came from, it's me."

It must have been the right answer, because everything had moved at lightning speed after that. Somehow, though, Olivia had still found time to worry that she'd been wrong. What if she couldn't love Matilda, in spite of it all? What if she saw Calvin or Amelia every time she looked into the baby's face?

As if the child had read her mind, she lifted her head and looked Olivia straight in the eye. A sleepy grin, all gums and not a trace of artifice in sight, spread across Matilda's perfect pink lips.

"Next year we'll add Benson to the end," Olivia said, returning the ornament to its spot below the angel tree topper. Tears turned the heavenly being into a dazzle of white and gold, but for once she was smiling through them. She began to hum "Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas" as she walked Matilda back to her crib.

The only thing Olivia had seen in her daughter's face was an unblemished future, full of possibilities. And so much love.

**. . .**

**The End**


End file.
